Murder in Steeple Martin (3 page)

‘Listen,’ she said, as he jumped up on to the table, having tried the Rayburn once or twice and suffered the indignity of burnt paws. ‘You are not a vegetarian – neither am I. And cats don’t like bread.’

She moved the big kettle on to the hot-plate and hunted round for the half-full tin of cat food.

‘There,’ she said, decanting it into a chipped Victorian saucer. ‘Get on with that and shut up.’

She made her coffee, took it into the living room and sat down by the empty fireplace. The script of
The Hop Pickers
lay on the hearth, interleaved with pages of untidy notes. She picked it up and riffled through it.

She had been so enthusiastic about this project, everything falling into place just as she was in the process of buying the cottage. Peter’s lovely play and the newly converted Oast House theatre had fired her imagination and given her an entree into the village community. But now her enthusiasm was ebbing away, leaving behind it a flat, uncomfortable sensation rather like thinking there was an extra step and finding that there wasn’t.

‘It isn’t fair, you know,’ she said out loud to Sidney, who spread himself out on her feet and gave a desultory purr. ‘After all I’ve been through, this bit should go right.’

Sidney opened one eye to a slit and slowly closed it again.

Sighing, she began to read the first page of the script where the young Hetty met the handsome young squire’s son Gregory. Incredible really, that this positively Shakespearean plot should be true and should actually have happened to people still living here. It really did have everything – star-crossed lovers, bullying parents, even murder. And best of all, a happy ending. Or at least in the play it was a happy ending. Looking at the protagonists today, one could be forgiven for wondering.

Libby leaned back in her chair. Was old Hetty happy with her Gregory, even after he came back from the prisoner of war camp such a wreck? Had she anticipated having to take on the management of a hop farm when her father-in-law died because her mother-in-law was incapable? And having to bring up her young sister into the bargain.

I bet Millie was a handful, thought Libby, and yet she had met Roger Parker and married him and had given birth to gorgeous Peter and equally gorgeous James. Libby’s face broke into an involuntary smile at the thought of Millie trying to come to terms with her outrageous elder son – a journalist who had set up home with the beautiful Harry, several years his junior, and not only that, but bought him his own restaurant into the bargain.

How
had
Harry taken to village life? wondered Libby. Coming from London, where he had been assistant chef in the exclusive private club Peter patronised, right in the thick of things – the right people, the right clothes, the right things to do. Libby knew what that was like, being a Londoner herself, having moved to Kent years ago when the children were small, to bring them up in a better environment. But she had been perfectly happy. Until she realised that Derek was leaving. Or rather that she was throwing him out. Still, he had a soft landing on that pneumatic Marion.

She stirred Sidney with her foot. ‘Bed,’ she said.

Chapter Three – 1943

‘
H
ETTY
!
YOUR MUM GOT
her letter yet?’

‘Yes. This morning. You got yours yet?’

‘Glad to get away from your dad, I’ll bet.’ Someone else put their head out of a window and winked. Hetty blushed and lifted her chin.

‘Dad’ll come down weekends, same as usual,’ she said sharply.

‘Het. Hetty. Wait.’

Hetty turned quickly and there was Flo, running up the street, cotton dress flying, bright blonde hair bobbing around her shoulders.

‘You got yours?’ They both shouted together, and burst out laughing.

‘Hut 18, we got again. Old Carpenter’s good, ain’t he? Always gives us the same huts.’ Flo tucked her arm through Hetty’s and they strolled down the middle of the dusty street, the sounds and smells of preparing dinner wafting around them, vying with the overwhelming smell of the docks. Woman’s time, it was, before the menfolk came home. Children still played on the doorsteps, grannies sat out in the sun.

‘It’ll never change. Not while old Carpenter’s there, anyway.’ Hetty gave Flo a knowing look and a nudge in the ribs. ‘Go on – you like him, really.’

‘Yeah. Too old for me, though. I like a bit of life in a chap. Now that pole-puller last year – remember?’

Hetty smiled, reminiscing. ‘He was lovely, wasn’t he? Not one of us, though.’

‘Well, no. Pole-pullers are always home-dwellers.’

‘I didn’t mean that. He was quality.’

‘From the Manor, yes. Never found out who he was, though, did we?’

‘Too scared to speak, wasn’t we?’ Hetty laughed. ‘I was surprised at you. You speak to anybody.’

‘Funny though. A gent like him walking around on stilts unhooking the bines. You don’t expect it, do you?’

‘Perhaps he’s the only one who can do it. It’s quite clever isn’t it?’

‘Nah! He’s not the only one pulling the bines. Old Carpenter had two or three doin’ it,’ said Flo.

‘Hetty!’ The shout came from the other end of the street.

‘Oh, gawd. The potatoes.’ Hetty’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I got to go.’

‘Can you come out after? Just for a chat?’ Flo asked, as they turned and trotted back the way they had come in the lengthening shadows.

‘I’ll see,’ said Hetty nervously. ‘We’ll be getting the box ready –’

Flo gave her a quick glance. ‘Yes. I know, Het. Well, if you can. I’ll come round a bit later. I won’t come in.’

‘No.’ Hetty squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘Might see you later.’ She whisked inside and into the scullery.

‘Pleased, Mum?’ she said shyly, getting the potatoes, and was rewarded with an enormous bear hug.

Lillian sighed into her daughter’s hair. ‘I’m always worried, Het. That he won’t want us again. You know why.’

‘Oh, Mum. We’re one of the best families, aren’t we? You can pick more than anyone I know. And I’m not bad.’

‘But the weekends, Het.’ Her mother let go of her. ‘You know. Yer dad.’

‘He doesn’t always come, Mum. And Uncle Alf and Lenny look after him mostly. There was only the once last year. Don’t worry. Just look forward to it. Go and get the hopping box in and we’ll go through it after dinner, shall we? See what else we’ve got to get before next week.’ Hetty gave her mother a kiss and turned back to the potatoes.

Ted Fisher was in a good mood when he came in. Hetty and Lillian had made sure his dinner was ready, that Millie hadn’t made a mess and that the brown envelope with the hopping letter in it was out of sight.

Hetty caught Lenny’s eye and winked when he went through to wash at the kitchen sink. When their father announced he was going to the pub after dinner, Lenny didn’t get up to go with him, weathering the abuse Ted Fisher flung at him for being a mummy’s boy and wanting to stay with the women. They were all too used to it to worry about the abuse or the language, knowing that if they kept quiet and looked cowed, they would be spared the worst of the violence.

Lillian brought in the hopping box when Ted had gone and Millie had been put upstairs to sleep in the bed she shared with Hetty. The excitement it generated, opening it to see what was in there, that had been put carefully away all year, from last October, was like Christmas – only better, in Hetty’s opinion, because Dad was drunk all the time at Christmas and upset everyone, but down hopping, they got away from him, during the weeks, anyway. And he didn’t always come down at weekends with the other men who weren’t away defending their country. He had other fish to fry, he said, and Lenny would look away, embarrassed.

‘Het – Flo’s outside.’ Lenny nudged his sister and went faintly pink.

Hetty got up off her knees and went to the door. ‘You can come in, Flo,’ she called.

‘You coming on our lorry, Flo?’ asked Lenny.

‘Course they are, Lenny.’ Lillian was counting the tins going in to the box. ‘Always have, haven’t they?’

‘Just checking,’ mumbled Lenny, looking down at his big callused hands. Flo patted one.

‘I’ll be there, Lenny, don’t you worry. Got to look after your sister, haven’t I?’

‘I reckon I’ll be looking after you if old Carpenter gets after you again,’ laughed Hetty.

‘Warburton, more like,’ snorted Flo. ‘He’s the one to watch.’

‘Oh, him.’ Lillian sat back on her heels and tucked a strand of hair back into its pins. ‘He’s always been a problem. Tries to get off with the women saying he’ll measure them light. Nasty piece of work.’

‘And do any of them go?’ Hetty’s eyes were wide. This was the first time she’d heard of this, although she’d always known that Warburton wasn’t liked.

‘It’s been known.’ Lillian tightened her lips and concentrated on re-packing the box. Hetty would have loved to ask who had actually gone off with Warburton, the tallyman, and where they had gone off to, and when. Life down hopping was so close that everyone knew what you were doing, and with whom. There was even a gap at the top of the walls between the huts, so, if you climbed up, you could see over the top, and you could hear everything that was said either side of you.

‘Wonder if that pole-puller’ll be working this year, Het?’ Flo reached across and gave Hetty a poke in the chest. ‘Perhaps you’ll get off with him if he hasn’t been called up yet, eh?’

‘Flo!’ Lillian and Hetty spoke together, Hetty’s ready blush sweeping up her neck and into her face. She cleared her throat and changed the subject. ‘When are you going to give in your notice then, Flo?’

It was understood by most of the employers in the area that the greater part of their female workforce would disappear at the end of August for three or four weeks, in the same way that the school board accepted it. They didn’t like it, but when half the school was away for the whole of the first part of term, they had no choice but to submit to it. In Kent, the home-dwellers’ schools understood these things better and timed the school holidays to coincide with the hop season.

But here in the East End, and even as far away as Brixton, it was a holiday, all the better for being illicit. It gave whole families time together, a smell of something other than the docks and the opportunity to breathe fresh air. Mothers took their ailing children, believing the three or four weeks of Kentish air would set them up for the harsh realities of a London winter. It was no longer an escape from the war that had been going on too long now, as Kent was in the direct firing line anyway. You could just as easily be bombed in a hop garden as in a London street.

Hetty saw Flo to the door at about ten o’clock, well before they could expect Ted to reappear. The hopping box had been repacked and Lenny had taken it out to the lean-to at the back of the privy. Lillian became quieter as the evening wore on, and Hetty knew she was bracing herself for the coming encounter with Ted. He would have to be told, he would be expecting it and would expect to visit them while they were away, but it had never stopped him behaving as though it was a major betrayal by his entire family.

In fact, all Hetty heard later that night as she lay wakeful and waiting was her father falling up the stairs and then the low growl of his voice before the creaking of the bed signalled his insistence on his marital rights. Hetty turned over and buried her head under the pillow. She hated hearing those noises. She knew, more or less, what it signified, although she had never discovered any of the details of this strange act, she only knew that thinking of her parents indulging in it gave her a funny, uncomfortable feeling inside. She knew it was what Flo had said all men were after, knew too that married women seemed to regard it with resignation rather than enjoyment, yet all the girls at work seemed to think of nothing else. As her mind began to drift away in to sleep, she wondered idly what it would be like when she began to think about it with someone … like the pole-puller from last year. It made her want to sneeze.

Chapter Four

L
IBBY MET
U
NCLE
L
ENNY
sooner than she had expected. As she hurried towards the butcher’s shop the following morning on a quest for something succulent for Sidney, a slim, upright, elderly woman was coming out. She was holding the door open for a dapper, elderly man with a grey toothbrush moustache and the sort of jacket Libby associated with bookies.

‘Hallo, Hetty.’ Libby stopped, a bundle of quivering curiosity.

‘Morning, Libby.’ Hetty Wilde had never lost her London accent, which she refused to call Cockney, for, she said, she had not been born within the sound of Bow Bells. She glanced at the man by her side, who raised his pork pie hat and who was all but twirling his moustaches, his chest thrust out as if for Libby’s inspection.

‘This here’s Lenny. My brother. Lenny, this is Libby Sarjeant.’

Libby was so surprised and delighted that she forgot to add ‘with a J’.

‘Mr –’ she began and realised she didn’t know his name.

‘Lenny, dear,’ he said, taking her hand and pressing it. ‘You’re the lady what’s doing our Peter’s play.’

‘That’s right.’ Libby smiled. ‘And you’ve come down to see it?’

‘I have, gel, I have. Here.’ He winked and gave her a severe blow in the ribs. ‘I could tell you a thing or two, I could. About them days.’

‘Oh, shut up, Lenny, do.’ Hetty sounded weary. ‘They all know all about it.’

‘Do they?’ Lenny looked surprised, giving his hat a flick to maintain the correct angle.

‘Oh, yes, Mr er – Lenny. Peter wrote it with Hetty’s full co-operation.’

‘And Greg’s?’

It was Libby’s turn to be surprised. ‘Well –’ she turned to Hetty.

‘Of course, you old fool. Now come along. I’m taking you to see Millie.’

‘Ah, dear little Millie.’ Lenny sighed fondly – and falsely, Libby was sure.

‘Looked after me, she did, you know, when I come home from the war.’

‘Course she didn’t. She was too young. It was Mum and me who looked after you,’ said Hetty, still trying to move away from the butcher’s shop.

‘Oh, yers, and Mum. I had a terrible war, you know, dear, terrible. I must tell you about it some time.’ Lenny patted Libby’s hand, gazing earnestly into her eyes.

‘You old fraud. You were only in on the last knockings and even then you were on every fiddle going and a few more besides. Sorry, Libby. Got to go. Millie is looking forward to seeing Lenny.’ Hetty finally succeeded in dragging Lenny after her up the road. Libby watched them go. I don’t think Millie is looking forward to seeing Lenny, she thought. Not after what I heard last night.

It was very cold in the conservatory that Libby used as a studio. She left the kitchen door open and pulled the Calor gas heater as near to her easel as she could without danger to life and Sidney’s limbs. She had lunched too well on fresh bread from the baker’s and the remains of a Stilton, and that combined with the cold made her feel rather as she had felt at school in long and boring afternoon maths lessons.

The rusty tinkle of the doorbell woke her up. Who the hell is that?, she thought, passing under mental review all the likely and unlikely callers for four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.

‘Millie. I mean – Mrs Parker.’ Libby schooled her features into surprised welcome. ‘Do come in.’

Millie Parker looked round as if wondering whether to make a break for it.

‘Er – I hope I’m not intruding?’ Her voice and appearance were a million miles from her sister’s, thought Libby. What effort had it cost her?

‘No, of course not,’ she said aloud. ‘I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?’

‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Millie stepped gingerly over the threshold, her high heels scraping on the quarry-tiled floor.

‘Sit down. May I take your coat?’

‘Thank you.’ Millie handed over an expensive (real) camelhair coat and patted the sculptured hair as if to make sure it was still there. Libby left her in the one decent armchair and went into the kitchen to make tea. A hasty search produced a tray and her mother’s bone china teacups and, satisfied, she carried the tray through to her guest.

‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ she lied, kneeling to put a match to the fire, which obligingly flared up immediately.

Millie looked as though her mouth wouldn’t smile, so she wasn’t going to try and force it.

‘Milk?’ Millie nodded. ‘Sugar?’ Millie shook her head. Libby was getting desperate. She handed over a cup and sat back on the cane sofa, which creaked alarmingly under her weight and surprised Sidney into sudden flight.

‘Actually, Mrs Sarjeant –’

‘Libby, please.’ said Libby.

‘Libby.’ Millie appeared to test it out and find it wanting. ‘I wanted to talk to you about –’

Here it comes, thought Libby.

‘About the play.’

Ah.

‘I know you’ve got so far with it, all the practising –’ Libby winced ‘– and everything, but I don’t know that I really think – well, that it’s a good idea.’

‘You don’t?’ Libby was not surprised. ‘Why not?’

‘Well.’ Millie’s neck was turning a rather unlovely red, the wrinkles showing up white in relief. ‘Dragging things up, you know …’

‘But we’re not, are we? Everybody knows the story of Hetty and Greg, and if you’re worried about the connection with your father – is that it? Are you worried because people accused him of killing Joe Warburton?’

Millie looked startled. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

‘Nobody ever proved it, you know,’ said Libby gently.

‘No.’

‘And nobody is going to do anything about it now. Are they?’

‘No.’

‘And your sister was quite happy about it all going ahead,’ persisted Libby, battling against the odds.

‘Yes.’

Libby surveyed her guest in silence for a moment.

‘So what is it you’re worried about?’ Silence. ‘It’s your brother Lenny, isn’t it?’

Millie looked up as if it cost her an effort.

‘He’s a trouble-maker, Mrs, er, Libby.’

‘He seemed rather a nice old gentleman to me.’

Millie’s colour left her face much quicker than it had come. ‘You’ve met him?’

‘This morning. With your sister. They were on their way to visit you, I gather.’

‘Yes.’ Millie cleared her throat. ‘Did he say anything?’

‘Hallo – nice to meet you. That sort of thing.’ Libby was amused.

‘No one asked me if I minded, you know.’ Millie stared hard at the fireplace as if suspecting it of hiding something.

‘Well, you’re not in the play. I mean, your character isn’t. I suppose Peter thought you wouldn’t mind one way or another.’

Millie looked affronted. ‘He is my son. He could at least have talked to me about it.’

Libby looked doubtful. ‘I suppose he could,’ she murmured. ‘But he did ask you to come and see the rehearsal last night, didn’t he?’

Millie continued as if she hadn’t heard. ‘And they are my family. It’s about my family. I have a position to keep up, you know.’

‘Yes, but so do Hetty and Greg, don’t they?’

‘Them,’ Millie said scornfully. ‘Greg wouldn’t have married Hetty if he’d been worried about his position in the village. And Hetty’s never tried to blend in. She doesn’t even try.’

Libby reflected that Hetty’s non-trying was probably of more value to the village than Millie’s trying, but once again kept silent.

‘So you won’t stop it then?’ Millie transferred her gaze from her cup to Libby with a suddenness that made Libby jump.

‘Well, I can’t, can I?’ she replied reasonably. ‘It’s Peter’s baby. And Ben has designed the theatre. The only thing I could do would be to withdraw, and I’m sure they would be able to carry on without me at this late stage. I’ve done all the blocking and characterisation.’

‘What? Blocking?’ Millie was momentarily diverted.

‘Telling people where to move and stand.’

‘Suppose you told Peter it wasn’t good enough to go on?’

Libby regarded her, fascinated. ‘I don’t believe this,’ she said finally. ‘Why is it so important to you that this play doesn’t go on?’

The colour returned to Millie’s face. ‘I – I – I just don’t think it’s in very good taste,’ she said.

‘There’s nothing offensive in it, you know,’ said Libby. ‘No bad language or explicit sex. You saw it last night.’

The colour was deepening alarmingly in Millie’s face. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she spluttered. A drop of spittle landed on her hand and she looked at it in horror.

‘And as I said before, we have got the permission of the members of the family who were actively involved at the time. I don’t think you can stop it, whatever you feel about it. I’m sorry.’ Libby was beginning to feel embarrassed.

‘Oh.’ Millie put her cup down in a sudden clumsy rush and stood up. ‘I mustn’t hold you up. Thank you so much for the tea. You must ask Peter to bring you to dinner some time –’

As if Peter and I were a couple, thought Libby.

‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ she said out loud, ‘and I really am sorry I can’t help you.’

Well, what was that all about, she wondered, watching her visitor’s precipitate flight down Allhallow’s Lane. Why is she so afraid of Lenny? Or rather, what is she afraid Lenny might
say
? Sidney joined her at the window making chirruping noises and trying to look appealing.

‘There’s something more than pride behind this,’ she told him severely, and he flattened his ears and cowered. ‘And you can stop behaving like a whipped cur just because I won’t feed you.’

The thought of Millie’s uncomfortable visit kept returning to her all afternoon, until, in an effort to forget it, she was annoyed to find herself taking more care than usual over her appearance. After a shower, she cleaned her face of the remains of the day’s haphazard make-up and tried again, with not much notable success, she decided, scowling at the bags sandwiched between her eyes and what had been called her apple cheeks. She even put a jacket on over a fairly quiet roll-necked sweater instead of the collection of variegated jumpers that she normally wore, and replaced the tired Indian skirt with a plain, straight one. She tried to push her abundant and wayward hair into a neat French roll. It didn’t stay there, and by that time it was too late to do anything else, so she left it loose, flying about her head in a greying red bush. Bother.

She walked up The Manor drive and paused to take in the impressive feature that was almost – but not quite – The Oast House Theatre. Its twin cones pointed proudly upwards, newly whitened, and the double doors stood open to reveal the new plate glass ones in the inner lobby. She pushed these open and was met by a welcoming wave of warmth.

‘Hey!’ she cried, surprised. ‘The heating’s on.’

Peter appeared at the top of the spiral staircase leading to the lighting box. ‘Ben came in today and harried them.’

‘I thought you were going to be late?’ Libby squinted up at him.

‘Finished early,’ he said and disappeared.

To Libby’s surprise, the set for the hop garden had been finished and even looked vaguely secure. Several of the actors were milling around on stage and looking a good deal more cheerful.

‘Good one tonight, then, Libby.’ The man playing the villainous tallyman hailed her.

‘Too right,’ said Libby. ‘Anyone seen our wardrobe mistress?’

And so the rehearsal got under way.

Half-way through, Libby had to concede that there had been a hundred percent improvement since last night. Even Emma, the girl playing Hetty’s character Becky, was making an effort and inspiring her stage lover to greater heights than normal.

‘Right, everyone, take a break,’ she called as they reached the end of a scene. ‘Pickers, I’d like to see your costumes if you could put on what you’ve got so far, and does anyone know if we’ve got the bins yet?’

‘Coming Thursday,’ came a muffled voice from the roof space.

‘Well done, Libby. You’re doing wonders.’

Libby turned suddenly and came face to face with Ben. Shit, she thought as a surge of adrenalin hit her system. I’m too old for this.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Yeah, great it is, gel. Looks good, too. Just like the West End.’

Uncle Lenny had appeared silently by his nephew’s side.

‘Thank you, Lenny.’ Libby smiled at the old man. ‘Would you like to meet the cast?’

‘No, yer all right, gel. All go fer a bevvy later, shall we? Ben’ll drive us down.’

‘Oh, it’s not far. I can walk.’

‘I can’t though. Or not quick enough, anyhow. Ben’ll give you a lift.’ Lenny turned to go back to his plastic chair and Libby turned her attention to the stage.

‘Can we change the set to the hoppers’ huts?’ she called.

‘Don’t know whether the roof’s secure yet,’ came the muffled voice again.

‘It should be.’ Ben was still by her side. ‘I was up there myself, today.’

Libby shot him a look, surprised, but said nothing and, smiling, he returned to his seat.

The hoppers’ huts were set and the tin roof flown in. Libby smiled with pleasure as the scene took shape, the big hopping pot over the below-ground (and therefore not seen) fire, the pickers outside their huts while the one cut-away section revealed Emma lying on her bed of straw and faggots – or what would be straw and faggots, when it was ready. At the moment, she was lying on an old curtain and complaining about the dirt. Paula loitered unconvincingly in the background, supposedly in the next door hut.

The scene wound on, gathering pace and momentum until the climax when Becky’s father arrived roaring drunk to burst in on his daughter and reveal that he knew her guilty secret. The scene closed with a blackout on Becky’s screams as her father lunged towards her.

A burst of spontaneous applause from those who had been watching sent a warm glow through Libby’s body. It was working.

‘OK. Straight on. We’ve got half an hour. Let’s do the fight scene.’

The lights went up as willing hands went to dismantle the huts and the wire began to raise the roof out of sight.

It swayed gently as it reached the top of its ascent. Then it fell, crushing the huts and whatever was underneath them.