Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

Everyone stared. Stewart kept his eyes on Libby’s face.

‘Well, I will, of course,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s exceedingly generous of you. I – er – I don’t really know what to say.’

He smiled briefly. ‘Just say you’ll tell him.’

Libby stood up. ‘Tell you what – why don’t I ring him now? It’s not much after ten.’

Stewart raised an eyebrow. ‘Fine.’

Libby moved away from the table and pressed buttons on her mobile. Andrew answered almost immediately.

‘You’re never going to believe this, Andrew, but Ron Stewart’s just offered –’

‘What did I tell you!’ Andrew almost exploded in her ear.

‘Andrew – no, listen. He offered. He’s right here. Do you want to talk to him?’

There was a bubbling noise at the other end of the line, like a kettle coming to a boil.

‘All right, put him on.’

‘So gracious,’ murmured Libby, and handed the phone to Stewart and tactfully went back to rejoin her friends.

‘Did you suggest that?’ she whispered to Lewis.

‘No of course not. Wonder why he’s done it?’

‘Coming back,’ muttered Ben.

Stewart handed the phone back to Libby. ‘He wants to speak to you.’

‘Andrew?’

‘I’m sorry, Libby. I jumped to conclusions. He’s offered to do an acoustic set with another member of – what’s their name? His band.’

‘Jonah Fludde. How very kind.’

‘Yes, apparently,’ Andrew coughed self-consciously, ‘he’s always been a fan of mine, and the charity is one he regularly contributes to, so he’s prepared to do it.’

‘How lovely.’ Libby was aware of Stewart standing tall and silent, watching her. ‘I’ll talk to you about the programme and stuff in the morning, shall I?’

‘Yes, and – thank you, Libby.’

‘No problem.’ Libby switched off her phone. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Stewart. This is very generous of you. Will I be able to collect some publicity material from you at some point?’

He inclined his head. ‘Tomorrow morning? Better not waste time. Come to the house. Do you know where it is?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll see you then.’

There was silence round the table as Ron Stewart walked back to the snug, said a few words, and then left the pub. Conversation broke out within both groups.

Libby told her table what Sir Andrew had told her.

‘So Ron Stewart doesn’t look like a suspect for Vernon Bowling’s murder,’ said Ben.

‘Do you think he’s got something to tell me, though?’ asked Libby, frowning. ‘After all, he suggested I should look in to the murder, and now he’s invited me to his house. It’s a bit odd.’

Lewis nodded. ‘Certainly when you think how reclusive he is. It surprised me when he joined the group and was willing to do the concert. Even let Robinson use his name in publicity.’

‘You let him use yours,’ said Peter.

‘Yeah, but I’m a media tart.’ Lewis grinned across the table at him.

‘Shall I go with you?’ asked Ben.

‘Do you think you should?’ asked Peter. ‘He’s asked for Libby.’

‘He could hardly object,’ said Ben.

‘He could,’ said Lewis. ‘He invited our Lib, and if he has got something to tell her, he probably won’t if you – or anyone else – is there.’

‘True,’ said Ben, ‘but I wish you weren’t going on with this.’

‘I know.’ Libby squeezed his hand. ‘But I’m very cross about having been bashed on the head, I feel guilty about Denise Bowling, and I need to find out about Mike Farthing on behalf of Cass. It’s personal.’

‘Will you ask Fran to go with you, then?’

‘Same thing applies,’ said Lewis. ‘He’s obviously got some – I dunno – thing about Libby. He asked her to investigate. Then when the group said no, he’s found a way of getting her to see him privately. I don’t think he wants anyone else around.’

‘Why couldn’t he just ask to see her then?’ said Peter. ‘Why go through all this rigmarole?’

‘Because of who he is,’ said Lewis. ‘You ask to see someone private, like, and everyone’s speculatin’ like mad. This way, it’s perfectly normal.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Ben. ‘Still, at least we all know where you’re going and when.’

‘I don’t think he means to attack or kidnap me,’ said Libby, with a laugh. ‘He wouldn’t have made the arrangements in front of you all, otherwise.’

There were signs of the meeting in the snug breaking up. Mike Farthing came over to Libby’s table.

‘Er – I hope we weren’t rude to you, Libby?’

‘Not at all, Mike,’ said Libby brightly. ‘Actually, I might drop in on you tomorrow. I have to be out your way in the morning.’

‘Really?’ Mike looked nervous. ‘Cass won’t be there.’

‘I know, but she’ll be down later tomorrow, won’t she?’ Libby smiled, still brightly. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘Now what are you playing at?’ asked Ben when Mike had gone.

‘Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? I shall be driving right past his nursery, so I’ll pop in and see if I can’t get something out of him without Cass being around.’

Lewis and Peter laughed. ‘You won’t stop her, you know you won’t,’ said Peter. ‘It’s a stubborn old trout.’

On Saturday morning Ben went off to fetch the Christmas trees from Cattlegreen Nursery and Libby phoned Fran to tell her what was happening.

‘I can’t come with you,’ said Fran, ‘I’m in the shop all day and it’s already really busy.’

‘No, that’s all right,’ said Libby, mightily relieved that she wasn’t going to have to tell Fran she wasn’t wanted. ‘And I thought I’d drop in on Mike after I’ve seen Stewart.’

‘Be careful, Libby,’ warned Fran. ‘Don’t go doing anything stupid.’

‘More stupid than getting bashed on the head? No, I won’t, I promise. And everyone knows where I’m going, so if I need rescuing there’ll be a posse all ready to gallop in.’

Libby took the more direct way into Bishop’s Bottom, avoiding Itching and Shott. Ron Stewart’s house looked more settled into its environment than Vernon Bowling’s more recent structure, although it was obvious that both had been designed by the same architect, if not built by the same builders. As predicted, huge gates stood in a high brick wall halfway up a gravelled drive. Libby had to get out of the car to speak into a metal box, but before she’d said more than ‘Hello’, the gates began to open. She hurriedly scrambled back into the driver’s seat and edged the car between them.

The drive widened out in front of the house, which was smaller than she’d thought at first. Built in the mock-Georgian style, Libby thought it would have looked more at home in an estate of upmarket executive homes, although the planting around it softened the edges. Ron Stewart stood at the top of a flight of shallow stone steps, hands behind his back.

‘Hello,’ said Libby breathlessly. ‘Am I late?’

A sardonic eyebrow was raised. ‘As we didn’t specify a time, no. Come on.’

Libby followed him into a wide hall, from which a central staircase rose. Dark panelling aped an era different to the exterior of the house, and abstract art on the walls clashed with both.

‘Thought you might want to see the studio,’ Stewart threw over his shoulder. ‘This way.’

He led the way to the back of the hall, where Libby was surprised to find a modern lift. He grinned at her expression.

‘Unexpected, isn’t it? But people with a lot of gear come here. Don’t want them lugging it all up those stairs.’

Libby got into the lift with him, and it rose smoothly, past an upstairs galleried landing and on to a much lighter corridor.

‘Here we are. More me, if you know what I mean.’ Stewart opened the door and they turned into the corridor, which led straight into a huge, light room filled with recording equipment, two vocal booths and vast mixing desks.

‘Wow!’ said Libby.

Stewart grinned and sat down behind one of the desks, waving to another chair. Libby sat.

‘Now,’ she said. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

His eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘I thought you wanted publicity material?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Libby. ‘But you could have sent that over to the theatre.’

Stewart stretched his long legs out in front of him and contemplated the rips in the knees. ‘Clever.’

Libby shook her head. ‘Not very. You tried to get the ukulele club to ask me to look into Bowling’s murder. There must be something you know that you don’t want to tell the police, but you think I could help.’

He was silent for a long time, then looked up and waved a hand to indicate the studio. ‘See this? He was very taken with this.’

‘Yes?’ prompted Libby, when he fell silent again.

‘See,’ he leant forward, his elbows on his knees, ‘I’ve always smoked a bit.’

Libby, assuming he meant cannabis rather than tobacco, nodded. Went with the territory.

‘So did Vern. Got into drugs when he was at that lab. We go – went – way back.’

‘Did you know him at the time of the experiments?’

‘Oh, yeah. They all blamed him, you know, although he was doing what the bloody government told him.’

Libby suddenly had a glimmer of sympathy for Vernon Bowling. She hadn’t thought of him as a victim, too.

‘Anyway, when I had this place built he loved it, and started asking about strengthened floors and how it worked. I had no idea what he was on about, but I told him my architect designed it and knew what I wanted, so he got the name of the architect, and next thing I know is he’s having a house built practically next door.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t mind really, and I thought the missis might be able to be mates with Vern’s wife. Course, we didn’t really know her, then. We’d never, you know, gone out together. Different crowd. Vern and I used to get together, but that was about it.’

He leant back and stretched. ‘I asked her to bring up some coffee, but I think she’s forgotten. I’ll give her a bell.’ He picked up a mobile and pressed a key.

‘Hello, sweets – you forgot that coffee? Oh, right.’ He put the phone down. ‘Coming right up.’

‘So when Bowling built his house, did he tell you what he wanted to do with the converted attic?’ asked Libby.

‘Wasn’t converted – purpose built, like this one. And no, not at first, but eventually he asked me about Mike Farthing.’

‘Mike? Why?’

‘Mike helped with a bit of the landscaping round here, so Vern wanted to ask him to help out at his place, too. And then he asked me if I thought Mike knew anything about plant ventilation systems. You know, for greenhouses.’

‘I know.’

‘So I asked him if he was setting up a nursery, or a conservatory or something. And that was when he took me up to the factory. Course, it didn’t have plants in it then, but he explained it all.’ Stewart shook his head. ‘I told him he was mad.’

‘So what happened when he asked Mike?’

‘Mike must have refused to help. You know Mike, don’t you? Can you see him doing anything like that? Course not.’

‘He says he didn’t know anything about it.’

‘So he didn’t even ask him. Not surprised.’

Libby thought for a moment. ‘So he asked the boys in Mike’s shop instead, didn’t he?’

Stewart looked surprised. ‘I suppose so. How do you know?’

‘The police took his computer away and shut the place down. There was something on that computer, and as Mike hardly ever uses it and all his mail order stuff is run by those two – Patrick and Gary, isn’t it? – it wasn’t hard to guess.’

Libby heard the lift door swish open and a woman appeared carrying a tray. Libby had expected Stewart’s wife to be as much of a seventies throw-back as he was, but Maria Stewart looked like most of Libby’s friends, middle-aged but not frumpy.

‘Telling Libby here about Vern’s house.’ Stewart waved a hand in Libby’s direction. Maria sat down and handed out mugs.

‘Silly bugger,’ she said. ‘Needed his head examined. And all those others.’

‘Others?’ Libby looked from Maria to Stewart.

‘Doctor, lawyer, merchant chief,’ said Maria. ‘He got them all hooked. But not on cannabis.’

Chapter Thirty-three

Libby gasped. ‘Robinson? Chandler? They were users? Of what?’

Stewart shrugged his shoulders, watching her carefully. ‘This and that. Course, so was I, but not on that scale. I introduced Vern to Chandler. He got me off a drugs charge a while ago, see. I didn’t know what it would lead to.’

‘What about the doctor?’ Libby was frowning. ‘And is he a doctor of medicine or what?’

‘Psychology,’ said Maria. ‘Pity he doesn’t psychoanalyse himself.’ She brushed greying blonde hair out of her eyes.

‘Now, sweets, we don’t really know about that,’ said Stewart.

‘About what?’ asked Libby, beginning to think she was floundering around in a completely different investigation.

‘His mates all covered up for him,’ said Maria, eying her husband defiantly. ‘Abuse, it was.’

‘Abuse?’ gasped Libby.

‘Now, now,’ Stewart protested again. ‘No one really knows.’

‘All right – it was gossip. His wife –’ Maria paused. ‘Have you met her?’

Libby nodded.

‘She goes to the same WI as I do.’ She caught Libby’s look of surprise and grinned. ‘Didn’t expect that, did you? Yeah, I belong. I know your friend Patti, too. We’re ever so normal, really. Anyway, Veronica Robinson goes to the same WI as Sandra Farrow and I do. Or she did. She stopped coming because of the gossip – at least I guess that was why it was.’

‘But gossip about what?’

Maria hesitated. ‘Well, Ron’s right, really. It is only gossip, but the word is that he used to beat Veronica up.’

‘Oh, good heavens,’ said Libby, her hand going to her mouth. ‘But how do you know?’

‘As we said, it was only gossip,’ said Maria.

‘It was hushed up,’ said Stewart. ‘The word is that he’d done it before, and his colleagues had rallied round.’

‘I can’t believe it! This is like a soap opera.’ Libby shook her head. ‘But they’re still together?’

‘Easy to cover things up when you can get someone to say your wife’s loony tunes in his business.’ Maria sat back triumphantly. ‘I honestly don’t know why Ron still knows them all.’

Stewart sighed. ‘Performing, that’s all.’ He looked at Libby and grinned. ‘That’s why I’d like to do the concert.’

‘Did Bowling know all this?’

‘Yeah.’ Stewart looked at his feet. ‘He got to know everyone’s secrets.’

Libby groaned.

‘Makes it difficult, doesn’t it?’ said Maria. ‘But we haven’t told the police any of this.’

‘They will already know about Robinson if his wife complained. It will be on record.’

‘Not if Derek Chandler managed to get them to scrub it. And we don’t know that the wife complained.’ Stewart sighed and sat up. ‘Now you know why I wanted you to have a look into it. One of those bastards is responsible, I’m sure, but no one will have told the police about any of this.’

‘So.’ Libby let out a breath. ‘Are there any more skeletons in the cupboards? Any more suspects?’

‘No.’ Stewart shook his head slowly. ‘Poor old Bob Alton, of course, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘Because of his son? You know about that?’

‘Oh, yes. He found out who Vern was when he saw our names on the list for the concert.’ He shrugged. ‘We weren’t a formal group – when we met in The Poacher it was all first names.’

‘What about Alan Farrow?’

‘Alan?’ Maria laughed. ‘Driven snow! And now he’s married to the lovely Sandra – he wouldn’t jeopardise that.’

‘So – just Robinson and Chandler?’ said Libby.

‘And me,’ said Stewart with a grin. ‘I knew about his factory and I’ve been done for drugs.’

‘I can’t see that you’ve got a motive, though.’ Libby sighed. ‘And Mike. I suppose he still has got a motive, if it was his computer used to research and buy the ventilation stuff.’

‘Research, I think, not buy. So he’d kill Vern for that? Don’t think so.’

‘On the spur of the moment?’ suggested Libby.

Maria and Stewart both shook their heads.

‘Was he a ladies man? Could Denise ...?’

‘No. And Denise wouldn’t want to kill him. He was her source.’

‘He – what? Denise, too?’

Maria nodded. ‘Have you met her? All nervy, gets stressed-out, and starts yelling.’

‘Oh – yes. I’ve seen her do that. I didn’t realise.’ Libby sighed again. ‘So might he have found someone else – to get away from her, perhaps?’

‘Did you ever see him?’ asked Stewart.

‘No, why?’

‘Imagine Derek Chandler with ginger hair – what there was of it,’ said Maria.

‘Unprepossessing, then?’

‘Off-putting to a degree.’ Maria shuddered artistically. ‘Creepy.’

‘That’s what I thought about Chandler,’ agreed Libby. ‘Well, thank you both for all this information, although I haven’t got a clue what to do with it. And I can’t see any reason at all for any of our suspects to have a go at me.’

‘I knew about you and your investigations – so could any of the others. And you were involved with the concert,’ said Stewart.

‘It still doesn’t makes sense,’ said Libby, and stood up. ‘I’ll think about it. I shall have a word with Mike on my way home.’

They both took her down in the lift and saw her to the front door.

‘Oh –’ said Libby as she stood on the steps. ‘Publicity material!’

‘Oh, bugger!’ said Stewart. ‘Hang on.’

He disappeared in the direction of the lift and Maria laughed.

‘He’s getting more and more forgetful.’ She moved nearer to Libby. ‘And he’s really nervous at the thought of performing – just so’s you know. That’s why he joined the uke band, to get him back into it.’

‘Why – I thought Jonah Fludde still performed?’

‘Occasionally at festivals, and he stays well in the background. He lost his nerve.’

‘Was there a reason?’

Maria’s eyes slid away from Libby’s. ‘Breakdown.’

‘Ah.’ Libby nodded and didn’t know what else to say. Stewart appeared in the hall holding a brown envelope.

‘I put all that together when I got in last night. Hope it helps.’

‘It does, and we’re all very grateful. If we hadn’t already sold out this would have done it for us.’

They both waved Libby off as she drove back down the drive and through the gates.

‘So that’s what a superstar is like,’ she said to herself.

As she drove towards Mike’s nursery she found herself trying to remember something that had been said that felt important, but couldn’t pin it down. But it niggled all the way towards Shott.

There were cars on the forecourt and the doors of the shop were wide open. To her surprise, Libby found Cassandra serving customers alongside a harassed-looking Mike. She stood aside and watched until they were both free and the shop was empty.

‘I thought you said Cassandra wouldn’t be here?’ She went forward and spoke to Mike.

‘I offered. Mike couldn’t cope here in the shop on his own.’ Cassandra was in full headmistress mode.

‘Oh.’ Libby looked at Mike. ‘The boys. Have they been prosecuted?’

Mike looked nervously at Cassandra. ʻI don’t know how much you know …’

‘I think I know that Vernon Bowling approached your boys, Gary and Patrick, who researched the heating and ventilating systems using your computer. That was why the police were so sure you had something to do with the factory. Is that it?’

‘Yes. They took the computer.’

‘I know. So how are you coping without it?’

‘He’s using mine.’ Cassandra pointed to a laptop. ‘I set him up with an email address, and he can access his old website via that. He’d written the login details down. Not really the right thing to do, but useful, in this case. We’re coping.’

‘Have they arrested Gary and Patrick?’

‘I think so.’

Libby made an exasperated noise. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘No.’ Mike looked at Cassandra again. Libby could see that this was going to be the pattern of their relationship from now on.

‘So that was it, was it?’ said Libby. ‘That was why they were turning you over? It wasn’t drugs?’

‘Of course it wasn’t,’ snapped Cassandra.

‘But in a way it was, wasn’t it?’ said Mike, suddenly. ‘They thought I’d been researching the systems for Vernon. They thought I was into drugs.’

‘Well,’ said Libby, narrowing her eyes at him, ‘so many people are, aren’t they?’

‘I suppose they are,’ said Mike gloomily. ‘I’m sure there wasn’t as much drug-taking when I was young.’

Cassandra was also watching him. ‘I don’t think she meant that, Mike.’

‘Eh?’ He looked startled.

‘I think Libby meant so many of your friends.’

‘My friends? Who do you mean?’

‘Eric Robinson and Derek Chandler for two.’

Mike looked stunned. He really didn’t know, thought Libby.

‘Eric ... and Derek? Drugs?’

‘Ron Stewart told me all about it. And Denise Bowling, of course.’

Mike looked as though he was going to faint.

‘Do the police know this?’ asked Cassandra.

‘I’ve no idea. And if they do, they will be looking into it all very carefully.’ Libby sat down on the only chair in the shop. ‘And none of them could have a motive for attacking me.’

‘There’s an obvious reason for attacking you,’ said Cassandra, looking down her aristocratic nose.

‘Oh, yes?’

‘You’re nosy.’

‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Mike nervously. ‘She’s not nosy, exactly, she’s – um –’

‘Nosy,’ Libby finished for him. ‘I know I am, but I’m known for getting most things right. The only problem here is that nobody from the uke group knew me.’

‘A lot of them saw you at that meeting in the theatre,’ said Cassandra.

‘But they didn’t know I would be looking into the murder. And they didn’t know where I lived, or that I would be out and about that afternoon.’

‘Easy enough to find out where you lived,’ said Cassandra. ‘Somebody would only have to ask in the village shop. And a lot of people in the area would have seen you in the local newspaper – or even on the local TV news programme. You and a murder equals investigation.’

‘So whoever did it jumped to conclusions?’

Cassandra shrugged. ‘Looks like it.’

Libby scowled at her feet and decided not to mention the allegation of abuse against Dr Robinson, although she couldn’t help asking, ‘How well do you know Robinson?’

‘I’ve told you before, not well at all. I didn’t know any of them well. I joined because I didn’t go out much and it was a way to meet people.’ Mike smiled. ‘And I found I enjoyed it.’

‘You never met his wife?’

‘Never. I didn’t even know he had one.’

‘Right.’ Libby stood up. ‘I’ll get going then. I’ve got one more call to make before I go home.’

Cassandra looked a question, but didn’t press it. Mike merely looked relieved.

The final visit, Libby had decided on the spur of the moment, was to Alan and Sandra Farrow. She pulled out her mobile before getting in to the car.

‘Yes, we’re in,’ said Sandra, sounding surprised. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Providence Row was another tiny cobbled lane leading off the main street in Itching. The Farrows’ house was halfway up, a flint cottage under a slate roof. A smart red front door sported a holly and fir Christmas wreath.

‘Come in.’ Sandra led the way directly into a long room with gentleman’s-club furniture. Out of French windows at the other end, Libby could see a frosty garden.

‘Let’s go into the kitchen. It’s warmer there, we haven’t lit the fire in the sitting room yet.’

The kitchen, very new and glossy, also looked out on the garden, where Libby could see Alan Farrow pottering in the doorway of a small shed. Sandra knocked on the window, he turned and waved.

‘So was there something you wanted to ask me?’ said Sandra, pouring tea from a knitted-cosied teapot very much at odds with the new kitchen.

‘Well, sort of,’ said Libby, accepting a cup. ‘You know you said you were friends with Denise through darts and – didn’t you say she was lonely?’

‘I thought she was, yes.’

‘You never suspected she might be on drugs, then?’

Sandra almost dropped her cup. ‘
Drugs
?’

‘Apparently.’ Libby was watching closely. ‘No indications?’

Sandra sat back in her chair shaking her head. ‘None. Mind you, I wouldn’t know what I was looking for. What was it? The cannabis?’

‘And worse, I gather,’ said Libby. ‘I’m afraid she
did
know about the factory after all. But she never let on to you?’

‘Never. I can’t believe it. Yes, she was a bit – well – nervy. Highly strung. But I suppose that was the drugs.’

‘Mmm.’ Libby was silent for a moment. ‘Do you happen to know how she is? Is she home?’

‘No, she’s been – ah – detained. Psychiatric ward. So sad.’ Sandra indeed looked on the point of bursting into tears. Luckily, Alan emerged through the back door rubbing his hands.

‘Tea?’ he said, beaming at the two women. ‘Capital.’ He shrugged off an old tweed coat and sat down next to his wife.

‘Alan,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Denise was on drugs.’

Alan Farrow looked at her for a long minute. ‘I know.’

‘You knew?’ gasped Sandra.

Alan turned to Libby. ‘When they first moved here I met Vernon in The Poacher and we got chatting. We met a few times, and one evening Denise came in. She was in such a state.’ He shook his head. ‘Vernon hustled her out. Eric Robinson was there, too. He said “Drugs, poor woman”. I supposed he knew. Being a doctor.’

‘But he’s a psychologist’ said Libby. ‘Not an ordinary doctor.’

‘All the more reason for him to know, surely?’ said Alan.

‘I suppose so.’ Libby pinched her lip. ‘Well, I’m no nearer knowing who hit me over the head or murdered Vernon Bowling, assuming it was the same person.’

‘Are you sure it is the same person?’ asked Sandra. ‘And one of the ukulele group?’

‘That seems to be the way the police investigation is going,’ said Libby. She swallowed the rest of her tea. ‘I’d better get going. I’ve been out all morning and I’ve got to get this publicity stuff off to Sir Andrew.’

‘So Ron Stewart’s really going to do a spot at the concert?’ said Alan.

‘Yes, he really is.’ Libby smiled. ‘As long as he doesn’t get arrested before then.’

‘Arrested?’ Sandra looked horrified. ‘Oh, no! You don’t mean ...?’