Murder in Bloom (7 page)

‘And Terry and Jane make it worse,’ said Libby, wiping coffee froth off her top lip.

‘Oh, God,’ groaned Fran and put her head in her hands. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have said yes.’

Libby and Guy looked astonished.

‘You what?’ said Libby. ‘Don’t be so bloody daft. I told you, you’re a different type from me entirely, and what happens to Ben and me is absolutely nothing to do with you.’

‘Quite,’ said Guy, looking worried.

‘And what about this murder?’ said Fran, looking up. ‘That can’t have helped.’

‘Actually, he’s quite interested in that,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t go out looking for it, and I’ve been trying to stay clear, although I did go and see this Lewis person yesterday.’

Fran sat up straight. ‘And?’ she said.

Libby looked at her warily, scenting change in the air. ‘Don’t repeat any of this,’ she said slowly, ‘because it’s completely confidential, but I’ll give you the bare bones.’

Guy and Fran groaned together. ‘Sorry,’ said Libby, and launched into her story.

‘The police will have found most of this out anyway,’ said Guy, when she’d finished. ‘I don’t see the need for all this secrecy of the confessional.’

‘Me neither. And the identity of his good fairy – no pun intended – will come out, too, as he sold Lewis the house.’

‘Who’s the body?’ said Fran.

‘They don’t know. They were doing forensics on it, Adam said. I think they thought at first it was very old, but now they think it might be more recent.’

‘How recent?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Eighteen months?’ Libby shook her head. ‘The police aren’t keeping Adam in their confidence. And he says they’ve got a scary superintendent they call Big Bertha, who would certainly be immune to any charms of either his or mine.’

‘Was it in the wood?’ asked Fran.

‘The skeleton? Yes, near the edge. Adam and Mog are clearing a path through it. I told you, he wants to turn it into a venue.’

‘Not if the entrance is still up that dismal overgrown drive in between those broken gateposts,’ said Guy.

‘That’s the way I go in, but perhaps there’s another way.’

‘It’s not a happy place,’ said Fran.

Libby and Guy looked at her.

‘No?’ said Libby.

‘No,’ said Fran. ‘And Lewis isn’t happy, either.’

‘How do you know?’ said Guy after a pause, while Fran looked out to sea, where the
Dolphin
, or it could have been the
Sparkler
, bobbed slowly round Dragon Island.

‘I just do,’ said Fran. ‘And it’s going to get worse.’

Depressed, Libby decided to leave them to it and drive back to Steeple Martin. She was just passing the turn to Steeple Mount when the midday news came on the radio.

‘And now, what the police are calling the “unexplained death” in his London home of financier Tony West.’

Chapter Seven

‘AD, IS LEWIS THERE?’ Libby had barely got through the front door before she was dialling Adam’s number.

‘No.’ Adam sounded perplexed. ‘He went off this morning before we got here. Katie won’t tell us anything.’

Trying to remember how much Adam knew of Lewis’s story, Libby tried another tack. ‘Did he talk to the police yesterday?’

‘I don’t know. Mog and I went back to work and didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon. He’s not likely to have told us, anyway, is he?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Libby, and sat down on the stairs.

‘What’s up, Ma? Is it something to do with what he told you yesterday?’

‘In a way, yes,’ said Libby, aware of a sinking feeling in her stomach. ‘I’m very much afraid your friend Lewis is going to be even deeper in the mire than he was before.’

‘What? Why?’

‘I think the friend who sold him Creekmarsh has just been found dead,’ said Libby, quite certain she was right.

There was a long silence. ‘Oh, bugger,’ said Adam finally. ‘I guess I’d better tell Mog.’

‘Yes, I suppose you had,’ said Libby. ‘I should think there’d be a block on everything to do with the place now.’

‘They wouldn’t think Lewis would kill this bloke, surely,’ Adam said. ‘And he couldn’t have put the skeleton in the wood, either.’

‘I think it’s a little more complicated than that,’ said Libby. ‘If you
do
see him, tell him he can ring me if he wants. And Ad –’

‘What?’

‘I think I might talk to Fran about it.’

‘Ma!’ he said warningly.

‘No, listen. She said a couple of things this morning about Creekmarsh and Lewis and she doesn’t know either of them. I’ll have to ask.’

‘Well, don’t go getting yourselves into trouble again. You know what Ben would say.’

‘Yes,’ said Libby, gritting her teeth. ‘I’d better go now, Ad. And don’t stop work yet, the police will tell you if you have to.’

‘Oh, thanks, now I’ve got something to look forward to,’ said Adam, and rang off.

Libby sat for a moment, then went and turned on the television and tried to find a news channel. Since Ben had persuaded her to install satellite, this was now easy, but none of the channels seemed to have anything on the death of Tony West. Eventually, however, a photograph flashed up on the screen with his name underneath. Libby recognised it immediately. No wonder Lewis had been keen to keep it under wraps, she thought.

Tony West had been a financier, yes, but also an entrepreneur, his fingers in many media pies, including reality TV. Libby had seen him on various television talk shows, and knew he was reputed to have what used to be known as an eye for the ladies, particularly those with very short skirts and very low tops. Not to mention an eye for the young men, reflected Libby, but she could now see what damage the relationship with Lewis could do to both of them, including the way West had used his influence to get Lewis the job on
Housey Housey
and subsequently his own show.

And now he was dead. And everything was going to come out. And Lewis was going to be destroyed. Of course, she thought, standing up and going into the kitchen, she could be wrong. It could be entirely the wrong Tony. But the coincidences were just too much. She moved the kettle absently on to the hotplate and stood staring out of the window. Sidney was stalking a butterfly, a futile occupation, about which he never learnt. He occasionally caught a blackbird or a mouse, to Libby’s horror, particularly as she had to clear up the resulting massacre in the house, but butterflies were far too canny. They led him a pretty chase, although Adam and Dominic said it made him look like a gay ballet dancer.

The kettle began to grumble to itself and Libby warmed the teapot. It was a proper cup of tea moment, not a time for a tea bag in the mug. When she’d poured on the water, she went back to the phone.

‘Fran, you know you said Creekmarsh wasn’t a happy place? And that Lewis wasn’t happy, either? What did you mean?’

There was a short silence. ‘I’m not sure,’ said Fran eventually. ‘It just feels dead. As though the trees are keeping in all the damp and dark and depression.’

Libby shivered. ‘It does feel a bit like that,’ she said, ‘especially going up the drive. The whole area is like it. And although what I’ve seen of the house is beautiful, in a decaying sort of a way, that’s the same.’

‘There’s been another death, hasn’t there?’ said Fran.

Libby’s heart jumped. ‘Yes. Did you see it on the news?’

‘I haven’t seen the news. But there has, hasn’t there?’

‘I think so,’ said Libby, and explained.

‘Yes, that’s right. That’s him,’ said Fran. ‘Has Lewis called you?’

‘No. Will he?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fran, ‘but I think he’s in trouble now.’

‘If he wants help, would you be willing?’

Fran sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Lib. I can’t help feeling that we’d be interfering. We know nothing about this. Your only connection is Adam working in the garden. And we don’t know any of the police involved.’

‘Fran, if he really wants help and he’s in trouble, you can’t refuse to help him, can you? Not if you’ve seen something.’

‘It’s only a feeling, Lib. I haven’t seen a hanging man, or anything.’

‘But you came up with it spontaneously. Like you used to say, it was just as if you’d always known.’

‘All right, all right. If you hear anything else, or Lewis asks you, you can call me. But I really don’t want to get involved. Guy and I want to get down to planning our wedding.’

With an effort, Libby accepted the change of subject. ‘How exciting,’ she said. ‘I didn’t ask this morning. Any decisions yet?’

‘A few,’ said Fran. ‘Why don’t you and Ben come over – oh. No, perhaps not a good idea.’

‘No,’ said Libby miserably.

‘Well, how about I come over this evening and tell you what’s been going on so far?’ suggested Fran.

‘But I only saw you this morning,’ said Libby. ‘Are you sure you want to see me again? Won’t Guy mind?’

Fran laughed. ‘Libby, what’s got into you? We’ve seen one another up to four times a day in the past, and as for Guy minding! Since when has that worried you?’

‘Oh, it’s all this stuff with Ben, I suppose,’ sighed Libby.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Fran, sounding quite brisk, ‘I’ll ask Guy to drive over and take Ben for a drink, it’s probably just what he needs, and I’ll come round to you and we can kill a bottle and discuss wedding plans. How does that sound?’

‘Lovely,’ said Libby happily.

When Ben phoned later to tell her Guy was taking him out for a drink, she suggested they both come round to Allhallow’s Lane later. ‘Then Guy can have a coffee before he drives home,’ she said.

‘So what will you two be talking about?’

‘Girly things,’ said Libby, feeling the blush creep up her neck. ‘You know.’

‘Wedding plans?’ asked Ben.

‘Er – yes.’ Libby swallowed. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Why should I mind? You enjoy yourselves. See you later.’

Libby stood looking at the phone for a good minute after Ben had rung off. She didn’t really like this new set-up
at all
.

Fran arrived just before eight, carrying a bottle of wine and a pile of magazines. Libby had heard nothing from Lewis or Adam during the rest of the afternoon, and no more had been added to the television item about the death of Tony West, except to confirm that he was on the board of the television production company behind ‘the hit show
Housey Housey
’. Well, that cleared that one up, thought Libby.

Libby poured wine and offered bowls of Bombay mix and peanuts, while Fran spread out magazines and brochures on the floor.

‘I thought you were going to have a quiet do?’ said Libby, flicking through a series of brochures for country house venues.

‘We are,’ said Fran, ‘but just because it’s quiet doesn’t mean to say we have to be hole-in-the-corner about it. We think this place is rather nice. Do you know it?’

Libby took the small brochure with a picture of an old oak door on the front. ‘Looks more like a house,’ she said, opening it. ‘Oh, I don’t know though. What a great bedroom!’

The photographs showed a four-poster bed in a room with an open fireplace, what looked like a small library and a Tudor hall with a gallery.

‘It only accommodates forty guests, though,’ said Libby.

‘As you so rightly said, we want a quiet do,’ said Fran, ‘and this is perfect. We can stay there, and there are two or three other guest bedrooms. The kids can fight over who stays, but if you look, there’s a minibus service to a nearby hotel if anyone else wants to stay in the vicinity.’

‘That’d be me, then,’ said Libby. ‘It looks lovely, Fran.’

‘Actually, Lib,’ said Fran, leaning over to top up Libby’s glass, ‘I thought you might want to stay at the venue.’

‘Yes, but there’s your children. And Sophie. She’ll want to be there, won’t she?’

‘I’d quite like you to be my attendant. Maid of honour. Bridesmaid. Whatever.’ Fran looked down at her hands, and to her surprise Libby saw a faint blush of colour in her cheeks.

‘Fran,’ she said, suddenly finding it hard to speak. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Fran, looking up. ‘It was because of you I met Guy. And he would like Ben to be his best man. Which would have been great if you’d still been together –’

‘I think we are still together,’ said Libby, ‘but I’m not sure we’re still on room-sharing terms.’

Fran nodded. ‘Yes. Well, we can sort all that out later,’ she said. ‘We book the place exclusively, so it’s up to us who stays and who doesn’t.’

‘It looks expensive,’ said Libby apprehensively.

‘Yes.’ Fran was amused. ‘But you’re not paying, so don’t worry about it.’

‘Fran.’ Libby was furiously embarrassed.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ Fran laughed. ‘It was your face. Now have a look at what I want to wear.’