Murder in Steeple Martin (9 page)

‘What you remember of the season when the play is set, really. What was Hetty like, and Gregory – and Joe Warburton, of course.’

Flo regarded her, head on one side like the bird she resembled.

‘Depends whether you want the before or after version.’

‘Before what? Do you mean the murder?’

‘No – before she started going with Greg. That was when she changed.’

‘Did she? In what way?’

Flo settled back in her chair and took another sip of stout. ‘She was always a quiet, shy sort of a girl – very helpful to her mum – good with Millie, did as she was told, you know. Me, now, I was a different kettle of fish. A bold piece, my gran used to call me, but then I’d been spoilt. I was the only one and Mum was a dressmaker, so she always had work. There were no men in our house, either, so I was used to women doing what they wanted, while poor old Het and her mum lived under Ted’s thumb – or fist. Cor! – knocked old Lillian about, he did.’

‘So what happened when Hetty met Greg?’ prompted Libby, when Flo seemed to go off in a trance.

‘Well, we’d seen him the year before, see. He was a pole-puller in his holidays.’

‘Pole-puller?’

‘They walked about on stilts unhooking the bines from the strings strung across the poles.’

‘Bines?’

Flo frowned at her. ‘Bines is the hop vines. Means a climbing shoot,’ she added surprisingly, ‘like, you know, columbine. Anyway, when we come down this year, Frank – that’s my Frank, see, he introduced us. Mr Gregory, he called him. Well, you should’ve seen it. One look between those two and it was like firework night. And then, Hetty, she got bolder. Used to go off to meet Greg almost every afternoon when we’d finished picking, before dinner, and sometimes afterwards. She never told me where, but I’d cover for her if I could, although I was going off to see Frank, by then. ’Course my mum and gran didn’t approve of me meeting Frank – said he was too old, but he was lovely and I didn’t care. He treated me different from those boys in London – all hands, they was. Frank treated me like a lady. And he had a bit put by, and a reserved occupation, of course. When we got married he brought Mum and Gran down here as well. He was a good man.’

Libby let her gaze into the electric fire for a while before asking gently, ‘And Hetty? What happened?’

‘She got careless. There was this tallyman – Warburton. Oh, you know about him, don’t you? Well, she wouldn’t have none of him and he started putting in the needle. Found out about her and Greg and told Ted. You know all this, though, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Libby lit a cigarette and watched the smoke spiral up to join Flo’s. ‘It’s a bit difficult, really. You see – Lenny came down for a few days–’

‘Yes, he came to see me.’ Flo leered. ‘I don’t encourage him.’

‘Oh.’ Libby was startled.

‘Oh, he always fancied me. Then I married Frank and he went off and became a wide boy. He tries to see me whenever he comes down – not that it’s very often.’

‘Did he say anything about the play?’

‘No, I didn’t give him a chance. I was going to whist. If he don’t phone first, I can’t be staying in, can I?’ Flo looked triumphant and Libby smiled.

‘No, of course not. It was just that a couple of things have happened over the last week – accidents, you know, and it worried Lenny.’ She didn’t add that it had worried everybody else as well. When you took the incidents out and gave them a good hard look, they didn’t amount to much really.

‘Worried him? How?’ Flo sat forward, frowning.

‘He thought at least one of the accidents had been set up for him.’

‘What? To hurt him, you mean?’ Libby realised that she had shocked Flo and felt guilty.

‘Yes – but I think he was wrong.’ Inspiration hit her. ‘That’s what I wanted to ask, you see. I would like to reassure him, but he wouldn’t say why he thought someone would want to harm him, so I thought you’d be sure to know.’

Flo thought for a moment before stubbing out her cigarette. ‘You mean it’s something from them days?’

‘He thought so.’

Flo shook her head. ‘Can’t be. Everyone knew what happened – that Warburton was found dead and Ted disappeared. Clear as daylight, weren’t it? Nobody blamed the Fishers – although Lillian took them all back to London straightaway. Wouldn’t even stay another night. ’Course, they didn’t know Hetty was expecting Susan, then.’

‘Did Lenny come back when Lillian and Hetty did?’

‘No, ’cause of the war, see? No reason for him to. Then when he married That Woman –’ Flo spoke in capital letters ‘– Lillian and Millie came back again. You know all that, too, don’t you?’

Libby nodded. ‘So is there anybody here who Lenny might have – oh, I don’t know –upset? Annoyed?’

‘No. Lenny was quite a mild chap in those days. He was always more worried about Ted doing something stupid. And quite right too, as it turned out.’

‘What about Warburton? Did he have any family who might have – well, wanted revenge or something?’

‘He had a mother. But she was a bit doolally even then. She wouldn’t have known what was going on.’ Flo pushed herself to her feet. ‘That pudding’ll be ready now. Come and sit down.’

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Flo was, as Peter had said, an extremely good cook and was interested in all aspects of the play, particularly Paula who was playing Lizzie – the part of Flo herself.

‘Blonde, she ought to be. I was blonde.’ Flo was clearing plates in to the tiny kitchen.

‘Well, she’s not exactly blonde,’ said Libby doubtfully.

‘As long as she’s pretty,’ said Flo firmly. ‘I was.’

‘Oh, she’s pretty, all right,’ said Libby. ‘A bit too old, though.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Flo obliquely. ‘I remember when she come ’ere with her mum.’

‘Paula? I thought she’d lived here for ever.’

‘Nah. They come about the time young James was born. She’d be about six, then. Same age as Peter.’

‘He thought she was younger. Didn’t they go to school together?’

‘Pete didn’t go to the village school. Everyone wondered about ’em. Her mum was Mrs Wentworth, but I don’t reckon she was married. They used to live over the butcher’s shop in the High Street.’ Flo wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Then they got the cottage in Lendle Lane. Don’t know how they afforded that. She didn’t work.’

‘Who? Paula’s mum?’

‘Delicate, she was. Died just before Paula went to London.’

Libby thought she might have found out why Paula was so keen to settle down. And surely she didn’t want to end up as a single parent like her mother.

She took her leave at about half past nine.

‘I’ve heard as you’re seeing our Ben?’ said Flo as she saw her out.

Libby blushed in the darkness. ‘I wouldn’t say seeing, exactly. He’s been helping a bit with the play, and he designed the theatre, so I’ve seen a bit of him, naturally.’

‘Hmm.’ Flo squinted at her. ‘Well, do you both good, if you ask me. He’s done enough running around with these young birds. Needs a good solid woman of his own age.’

Refusing to be insulted by this unflattering description, Libby pulled her scarf tighter and bade Flo goodnight.

Peter and Harry were wearing matching towelling robes in navy blue and white. Libby told them they looked like a shot for a mail-order catalogue. Peter poured her a large whisky and she sat in her usual subsiding chair by the fire.

‘Nice din-dins?’ Peter flopped back into his corner of the sofa and Harry began to massage his feet.

‘Lovely, thanks. And the wine was good. Oh, and thanks for the tip about the stout. She loved it.’

‘So, did you get what you wanted?’ Harry swivelled his eyes sideways at her.

‘Er – yes. Corroborative detail – that sort of thing.’ Libby felt herself colouring up and bent down for her whisky glass.

‘Come on. What is it you’re after really?’ Peter swung his legs down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Libby tried to think of something to say while avoiding both pairs of eyes trained on her like sniper guns.

‘Look, if you’re trying to get to the bottom of these accidents, you might as well give up.’ Peter’s voice held a warning note. ‘My dear mama is troubled and has now got my brother worried, and little what’s-er-face who’s playing Becky is behaving like Mariana of the Moated Grange. I don’t know what’s behind it and I don’t want to.’

Libby’s mouth set in a tight line of embarrassment and stubbornness.

‘She doesn’t agree, dear heart.’ Harry smiled lazily through a haze of cigarette smoke.

Peter sighed, exasperated. ‘Look, Lib, have you discussed this with Ben?’

‘Sort of. Last night on the way back from rehearsal. We thought Lenny must have gone back to London before we started asking any more questions.’

‘Well, then. Don’t you think the sensible thing to do is stop asking them?’

It was Libby’s turn to sigh. ‘That’s all very well, but I can’t risk any more accidents. Someone could be really badly hurt. If it really is someone trying to frighten us off, they won’t stop, don’t you see?’

Peter sat back again, scowling like a Roman emperor.

‘So what did you ask Flo?’ Harry stood up and went to fetch Libby an ashtray.

‘I asked what Hetty and Greg were like in the old days.’

‘And did you get anything useful?’

Libby shook her head. ‘No. I’d heard it all before. A couple of details that were new – like how Hetty changed when she met Greg, but that was all. Oh, and Warburton had a mother.’

Harry clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘That’s it, then. It’s a one hundred and twenty-year-old woman seeking revenge.’

Peter pulled at the back of Harry’s robe, which threatened to fall apart. ‘Sit down, you tart.’

‘Well, it could be a family feud, couldn’t it?’ Harry sat down on the sofa.

‘Flo said that she was a bit peculiar and wouldn’t have known what was going on, so it can’t be that.’ Libby gazed thoughtfully into the fire. ‘What I can’t get over is how Millie, who was only a toddler at the time, is so bothered by all of this.’

Peter sighed. ‘Well, she’s going to have something else to worry about now, isn’t she?’

A small silence fell. Libby glanced furtively at Harry, who shrugged.

‘Look, I know he’s told you. What do you think?’ Peter leaned forward again.

‘Er – James? Paula?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m furious.’

Peter leaned back. ‘Good. So are we all. So what do we do about it?’

‘We can’t do anything, can we? If James really is this baby’s father then he has to take responsibility for it, but whatever happened to condoms?’

‘Ah,’ said Peter triumphantly, ‘that’s where it gets even more interesting. James thought she was still on the pill, and because they were still “in a relationship” as I believe the phrase goes, wasn’t using any other protection. Remember when they went away for that weekend?’

Libby shook her head. ‘No. Should I?’

‘Suppose not. Well, that’s when it was, apparently. He wanted to dump her and she decided he wasn’t going to.’

‘Libby’s right, though, Pete,’ said Harry. ‘James is a big boy now, and we can’t do anything. Anyway, your ma will be pleased, won’t she? Means he’ll be around and she’ll have a grandchild.’

‘That’s what James said to me,’ agreed Libby. ‘And Flo told me Paula’s mum was a single parent, so she won’t want to end up the same. Where are they now?’

‘James is in Canterbury in his flat. He phoned earlier.’

‘Not with Paula?’

‘No, apparently she had to go out. He didn’t sound too bothered.’

‘He doesn’t really want to be with her, love,’ Harry patted Peter’s cheek.

‘Not much comfort, though, is it?’ said Peter. ‘Still, it’ll keep Mum off our backs for a bit, I suppose, at poor old Jamie’s expense. Never happier than when messing about with babies, my mama.’

Libby reflected on this unlikely picture of the vacuum- packed Millie of her recollection. ‘Golly,’ she said.

Chapter Eleven

T
HE TELEPHONE WOKE
L
IBBY
again in the morning. Sidney, who was playing draught excluders across her bedroom doorway, severely impeded her progress and, once more, the answerphone cut in.

‘Libby, it’s Hetty. Please phone me back.’

Libby seized the receiver before Hetty could cut her off.

‘Hetty, I’m here. What’s the problem?’

‘Libby? Is that you? Not the machine?’

‘No, it’s me. I didn’t get to the phone in time.’

‘More trouble, gel. Sorry about this.’

Libby felt her heart – or something else underneath her ribcage – give an unsettling lurch. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, through a mouth gone suddenly dry.

‘Someone tried to set fire to the theatre.’

Libby was aware of several things at once. A feeling that all the blood had drained from her head to her feet, that Sidney was nudging her arm and yowling for breakfast and that it was raining.

‘It’s all right. Ben saw it and called the fire brigade. It’s only the back bit – and there’s not much damage.’

‘Oh.’ Libby swallowed hard. ‘When was this?’

‘Early hours of this morning. It had started raining, too, so that helped.’

‘What was Ben doing up at that time?’ Libby blurted out, regretting it immediately.

‘I don’t know.’ Hetty sounded surprised, as well she might, thought Libby. ‘Lucky he was, though.’

‘Yes. Thank you for letting me know, Hetty. I’d better get down there, I suppose. Does Peter know?’

‘Yes, Ben phoned him earlier. He didn’t phone you. Said he didn’t want to worry you.’

After Hetty had rung off, Libby sat down heavily and allowed Sidney to crawl all over her. She desperately needed someone to talk to, but who? Peter had become distinctly unsympathetic and Ben – Libby refused to think about Ben.

Feeling friendless, she let herself out of the cottage half an hour later, leaving Sidney on guard. The rain was still in the air as a sort of miasma, but its earlier heavier downpour had left sinister puddles in the ruts of Allhallow’s Lane and progress was slow as Libby attempted a stepping stone advance.

At the back of the theatre, she met the residue of the fire crew and a black-coated individual who turned out to be an investigator, who asked her questions with accusation in a watery blue eye.

Finally convinced that the last thing in the world she would have done was to destroy the theatre, he left her and poked about a bit more along the blackened back wall. Libby stood miserably watching him, her cape wrapped tightly round her, until one of the fireman took pity on her and told her that there was no real damage – the gentleman had spotted it so quickly. Pity she couldn’t think of anybody who might have done it, but he expected it was the same crowd of hooligans who’d had a field day with local schools recently. Libby tried to keep her face expressionless and thanked him, before turning away, wondering whether she ought to go up to The Manor to see Hetty, or just go home.

Her dilemma was resolved unexpectedly by the appearance of Millie, hurrying up the drive in designer wax jacket and green wellies.

‘Mrs – er – Libby.’ She pulled up, panting, in front of Libby. ‘I’ve just heard. Isn’t it awful?’

‘The fire?’ asked Libby, cautiously.

‘Yes, of course. Peter’s friend just told me.’ Faint colour appeared in her cheeks at this euphemistic description of Harry. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Yes, it was a bit of a shock,’ Libby agreed. ‘The firemen and the investigator are still there, so I thought I’d leave them to it.’

‘Well, there’s nothing you can do, is there, dear?’ Millie turned and took Libby’s arm. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

Surprised, Libby looked at her and shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t have time. I fed Sidney, though,’ she added inconsequentially.

‘Sidney?’ Millie withdrew her arm.

‘My cat.’

‘Oh.’ Millie let her smile come back. ‘Well, why don’t you come back with me? I don’t bother to cook breakfast just for myself these days but I’m sure we could both do with something.’

Puzzled, and on the point of refusing, Libby stopped. She had to get to the bottom of Millie’s change of attitude somehow – what better way than this?

‘Thank you – that’s very kind of you. If you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

What stupid platitudes we do come out with in the guise of social behaviour, she thought as Millie disclaimed. Of course it was trouble to cook for somebody else – especially unexpectedly. On the other hand, Millie wouldn’t have offered if, for one reason or another, she hadn’t wanted to. Perhaps, thought Libby, as they started to walk, James had told his mother about Paula and the baby and Millie wanted to talk about it. Though why on earth she would want to talk to me, thought Libby, goodness alone knows.

Steeple Farm was at the other end of the village. The road wound up between banks until they could have been miles from civilisation. Millie was not a conversationalist while she was walking, but the silence, which Libby thought at first was total, was, in fact, charged with a hundred tiny, unidentifiable sounds – insects, rustling undergrowth, birdsong, far-off farmyard sounds, even, modified and gentled by distance, the sound of a tractor. A watery sun appeared between sullen black clouds, and Libby looked up at the house, some of its small-paned windows molten in the sun, two of them staring blackly from under eyebrows of thatch. Libby shivered. What should have been a picture book cottage somehow wasn’t.

‘Come in.’ Millie opened the heavy oak door and Libby stepped into an anachronism. The hall floor, which she guessed was flagged, was covered in a thick red carpet, the walls painted cream, with gilt touches in the wall lights, switches and chain store picture frames. A teak telephone table, complete with cushioned seat and space for directories, stood by the stairs. Millie led the way into the kitchen, a magazine dream in pale wood and stainless steel, and pulled out a chair from the matching table.

‘Coffee? Or tea?’ she asked, shedding her jacket and going to a door at the far end of the kitchen, which proved to contain a coat lobby.

‘Tea, please.’ Libby tried to remove her cape unobtrusively and got one arm trapped.

‘Let me take your – er –’ offered Millie, coming forward revealed in smart skirt and jumper and court shoes. Libby breathed heavily and managed to relinquish the cape.

‘Bacon and eggs?’ Millie was plugging in an all-singing, all-dancing kettle.

‘Lovely. What a treat,’ said Libby, smiling brightly.

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? I find I don’t eat terribly well now I’m on my own. Peter insists that I go to his friend’s restaurant, but I’m not very fond of vegetarian food, I’m afraid, so I don’t go often. James comes for Sunday lunch most weeks of course.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby, not able to think of anything else.

‘It’s a shame, really, because since I’ve had this new kitchen installed, I don’t really get the chance to use it. I always wanted something like this, but Peter’s father wouldn’t let me change it. It’s lovely now.’ She looked around with satisfaction. ‘So bright.’

‘What was it like before?’ asked Libby.

‘Oh, shelves – the old dresser – no storage, really, except the larder. And that dreadful Aga, of course. Not even one of the new ones – an old cream one, it was. Terrible to cook with.’ She slid bacon under a grill and broke an egg into a pan. Libby tried not to feel outraged on behalf of the old kitchen and watched as the sliced bread went into the toaster.

‘I could live with just my microwave, I think, couldn’t you?’ Millie put a delicate translucent cup of pale tea in front of Libby, whose Assam-conditioned nose caught a whiff of Earl Grey.

‘I quite like my Rayburn, actually,’ Libby confessed and watched Millie’s unreal eyebrows shoot up into her helmet of blonde hair.

‘Really? Well, I suppose if you’ve never had one before they can be quite a novelty.’

‘I expect that’s it,’ agreed Libby, chastened.

‘There. You’re looking much more cheerful now.’ Millie smiled. ‘Drink your tea. I won’t be long.’

By the time Libby had battled her way through the weak, perfumed liquid in front of her, Millie had served up two antiseptic-looking plates of bacon, egg and toast.

‘Terrible for the calories, of course,’ she said chattily, as she sat down and shook out a snowy napkin. Libby shot her a suspicious glance but decided there was nothing untoward in this remark and picked up her knife and fork.

‘So what will you do now?’ Millie fixed a bright eye on Libby and chewed her toast thoroughly.

‘Eh?’ Libby dropped a piece of squishy fried egg back on to her plate.

‘At the Oast House. What will happen?’

Libby frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Will it be repaired? As a theatre? I wouldn’t have thought it would be worth it. Throwing good money after bad, I’d call it.’ Millie put her knife and fork together neatly and picked up her coffee cup.

‘Ah.’ A lot of things became clearer to Libby. Millie’s astonishing friendliness, for one thing. ‘I’m sorry, Millie. Harry can’t have explained properly. There was a fire, but Ben spotted it and called the fire brigade before it did any real damage. We’ve just got rather a black wall at the back, that’s all.’

Millie’s mouth had remained open throughout this explanation and her colour, much to Libby’s interest, had fluctuated from red to white and back to red again. Finally, she closed her mouth with an audible snap and stretched it into a smile.

‘What a relief for you all, then,’ she said, her voice sounding like chalk on a blackboard. ‘Harry’s so dramatic.’ She picked up her knife and fork and poked viciously at a piece of bacon.

Harry’s so mischievous, Libby corrected mentally. She could just hear him giving Millie a gleefully exaggerated version of the fire. ‘Yes,’ she said aloud, ‘it is a relief. At least it won’t affect the play. We can carry on with rehearsals and nothing has been damaged.’

Millie’s smile remained fixed. ‘Of course,’ she said, and abandoned what remained of her breakfast, pushing the plate away with a jerky movement.

Libby felt uncomfortable. ‘May I help you with the washing up?’ She stood and collected her plate and cup.

Millie came to life. ‘No, no. It’ll all go in the dishwasher. Such a boon, aren’t they?’ she added, with a return to her former manner.

‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Libby, who no longer had one.

‘I shall buy one for James, of course.’

Libby’s mind skittered around trying to follow Millie’s quantum leap of conversation. ‘Oh?’ she said.

‘He’ll need one, won’t he? Him and – the baby.’

She knows, then, but what a strange way of putting it, thought Libby. ‘Yes, I suppose it would be very handy, but the washing machine’s the most essential thing with a new baby, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘He’s got a lovely washing machine in his flat. I expect he’ll move it down here when he comes.’

‘Oh, he’s moving into Paula’s cottage, is he?’ Made the decision, then, thought Libby.

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Millie, vaguely. ‘It’s bound to be better than hers.’

Washing machine, not cottage, interpreted Libby, and wondered if she should offer congratulations on impending grandmotherhood. Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate.

‘Thank you so much for breakfast,’ she said at the door. ‘It was lovely to be looked after for a change.’

‘Any time,’ said Millie, and Libby sensed the withdrawing into herself as Millie closed the door almost before she’d finished speaking.

The sun had retired hurt once again, and Libby sloshed through muddy puddles back to the village. Ferocious brambles caught at her cape as, more than once, she was forced into the hedge to let arrogant four-wheel-drive vehicles push past her. She found herself thinking longingly of town and metalled roads with pavements and by the time she reached The Pink Geranium, had decided what to do.

‘Harry?’ She pushed open the door and called.

‘Hallo, dear heart.’ Harry appeared from the kitchen in his leather trousers, pink shirt and an enveloping white apron. ‘What can I do for you? Come for a bit of tea and sympathy?’

‘No, I’ve just had that, thanks.’ Libby pulled out a chair and sank down.

‘Oh?’ Harry raised an eyebrow and sat astride a chair opposite. ‘And who was the dispenser?’

‘Millie.’ Libby enjoyed the reaction to her revelation and giggled. ‘And it’s all your fault. You told her about the fire and she came rushing up to gloat.’

‘Did she?’ Harry leaned his elbows on the table. ‘And were you there?’

‘We met on the drive, so she didn’t actually see what damage had been done. She just assumed I was devastated and carted me off home for breakfast. I admit, I was puzzled at first. Then, of course, I told her that we had no damage. She was riveted.’

‘I bet. So all her efforts were wasted?’

‘Efforts?’ repeated Libby, startled.

‘Conciliating you.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes. She couldn’t get rid of me quick enough when she realised she couldn’t gloat. Poor old Peter. Fancy having a mother like that. Did you know she ripped out a perfectly good kitchen – and an Aga?’

‘Her loss was our gain, dearie.’

‘Oh – I see. The dresser?’

‘All of it. It doesn’t fit as well in our cottage as it did at the farmhouse, but it looks better than the seventies Formica that we had before. And I adore the Aga.’

‘Well, that’s all right then.’ Libby sat up straight. ‘Look, I’m off to London this morning and I don’t know what time I shall be back. Could you ask Peter if he would take tonight’s rehearsal until I am?’

‘This is so sudden. What are you doing in London?’

‘I’m going to see Lenny.’ Libby stood up.

Harry shook his head. ‘Pete won’t like it.’

Libby refrained from the obvious retort. ‘I can’t see why not.’

‘He just wants to let it lie. I think if he could, he’d give up the idea of the play.’

Libby was shocked. ‘Peter? After all his hard work? Don’t be silly, Harry. He’s been saying that for the last week but he doesn’t really mean it.’

‘Well, it does seem to be fated, dear, doesn’t it? I think Ben’s much of the same opinion.’

‘Ben?’ Libby’s voice rose. ‘How do you know?’