Murder in the Green (36 page)

‘Did he actually say “in possession of something”?’

Monica looked confused. ‘Perhaps he didn’t,’ she said. ‘I thought he did.’ She turned away as the kettle boiled. If he didn’t, thought Libby, that means you knew they’d find something there. Interesting. ‘Actually,’ she said out loud, ‘I wanted to ask you a question. The same question that Inspector Connell was going to ask you.’

‘Oh?’ Monica turned round. ‘What was that?’

‘Well, you know the police have to investigate the backgrounds of both your husband and John Lethbridge more thoroughly now?’

‘Really?’ Monica took milk from the fridge. ‘Milk?’

‘Yes, please. No sugar,’ said Libby, noticing that this time there were no dainty cups, simply floral mugs. ‘Anyway, since John Lethbridge’s body was found –’ she saw Monica wince ‘– they have to look further afield for your husband’s murderer.’

‘I didn’t think they thought John was the murderer in the first place,’ said Monica, handing over a mug.

‘I’m not sure they did, either, but it was one of their theories. When he was found, then it was no longer a single, but a multiple murderer. And something must have linked the two men.’

‘That’s simple. Me.’

‘Yes, I know, but in that case who would want to kill them? Someone who was jealous of them both? Did you have another – um – admirer?’

‘Another lover, you mean?’ Monica looked amused. ‘Not recently, no. And as far as I know, no one wanted to be.’

‘Right.’ Libby looked down into her mug.

‘So was that the question?’

‘No.’ Libby looked up. ‘The day he died, your husband received a letter. Do you know who it was from?’

Monica’s eyes widened. ‘A letter?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know he did?’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Libby. ‘Did he?’

Monica shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know. Where did he get it?’

‘Here, I thought.’

Monica shook her head again. ‘Not that I saw. We had breakfast together, then he went off. Perhaps he was given it when he met the other Morris Men?’

‘Maybe.’ Libby wasn’t sure this was going the way she wanted it. ‘We thought maybe it was blackmail.’

‘In that case,’ said Monica, almost scornfully, ‘John wouldn’t be linked with it, would he? He was already dead.’

I don’t know where to go with this, thought Libby. I should have left it to the police.

‘So where is this letter?’ Monica picked up her own mug and gestured for Libby to go through to the sitting room.

‘No one knows,’ said Libby, now worrying that she would give away vital information and Ian would kill
her
.

‘It doesn’t seem as though there’s any hard evidence of it existing at all.’ Monica went to her leather chair. ‘Why do you think it did?’

‘The police were told about it.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake! Who by?’

‘Your husband was overheard talking to someone on the morning of his death.’

‘And he said he’d had a letter? Sounds unlikely to me. If it was a blackmailing letter, surely he wouldn’t have talked about it?’

‘That’s true.’ Libby frowned. ‘You’re absolutely right.’ She looked up and smiled at Monica. ‘I wonder if Inspector Connell has thought of it? It does seem unlikely, doesn’t it?’

Monica smiled back. ‘Logic, that’s all. Who would he have told about a blackmail letter? It’s not something you would tell
anyone
, is it?’

‘Oh, but he did.’

Libby and Monica both swung round.

‘And you know who he told, don’t you?’ Wilhelmina’s tone was vicious. She stood in the conservatory doorway, dishevelled yet menacing. The black leather and lace were back, and the mask-like make-up, but everything was slightly off kilter. Libby could see her chest rising and falling quickly.

‘Go on, then, guess.’ Wilhelmina strode across the eau-de-nile carpet to where Monica shrank back in her chair, and slapped her hard across the face. Tea went everywhere.

‘You, then. You’re so clever.’ She turned to Libby. ‘You didn’t get any of it, did you?’

‘Of what?’ said Libby, through dry lips.

‘You didn’t get what John was on about, did you? What he’d found out?’

‘No.’

‘And now your fucking Inspector has arrested Diggory.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything? And how do you know?’ Libby could barely speak, but nothing Wilhelmina was saying was making any sense.

‘They caught that cow Martin. He was – I don’t know – out of sight, and he sent me a text. Knew they’d find him. Said it was your fault. And hers. They’ll come for me next.’

‘Are you saying Diggory killed Bill?’ Monica’s voice was bordering on hysteria.

‘Diggory?’ Wilhelmina laughed. ‘He wouldn’t have the guts.’ She stumbled over Monica’s feet and picked up the photographs from the mantelpiece. ‘This is what it’s really about!’ She waved them at Libby, her voice cracking. ‘That’s why he wrote the letter.’

‘Eh? Who?’ Libby looked across at Monica in bewilderment. Monica just sat curled in her chair, a frozen bundle of fear.

‘Who do you bloody think?’ snarled Wilhelmina, and threw the pictures at Libby. One of them caught the side of her head and smashed, showering glass over her face. Monica screamed.

‘You stupid cow!’ Wilhelmina screamed back. ‘John, of course! John wrote the letter.’

Libby shakily moved a hand to wipe the blood trickling down the side of her face. John? Lethbridge? He wrote the letter? She looked down at the photograph on the floor, four faces smiling out of a frame. So alike.

She never knew why the synapses connected quite as they did, but suddenly it all made sense. At least, some of it did.

‘Had Bill told him, Willy?’ she asked as gently as she could.

‘Course he bloody didn’t.’ She was shaking now, too, and had to hold on to the mantel shelf. Monica was moaning quietly in her chair.

‘So what happened?’

Wilhelmina’s legs suddenly gave way and she crumpled to the floor. ‘John said –’ she looked over at Monica ‘– that she should stop chasing him.’

‘Monica was chasing John?’

Wilhelmina nodded. ‘They’d had a thing going but it was over. John wanted me back.’

‘Did he?’ Libby was surprised and didn’t altogether believe this. ‘So what happened?’

‘John went to see – her. She told him. Told him everything. He told me.’

‘Monica told John the truth? So why did John write Bill a letter?’

‘Oh, don’t be a fucking idiot,’ said Wilhelmina wearily.

‘It
was
blackmail, then?’

‘Bill didn’t know. John wrote and told him.’

Libby’s eyebrows rose to her hairline and she looked across at Monica who was still whimpering.

‘Monica knew? And she hadn’t said anything?’

Wilhelmina shrugged.

‘But it wasn’t Bill who killed John?’

‘He was dead by then, wasn’t he?’ Wilhelmina stuck her legs out in front of her and leaned her head back against the wall. ‘I loved him, you know.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Libby quietly. ‘So do you know the truth, too? Why didn’t you tell the police before?’

Wilhelmina shrugged again.

‘Right.’ Libby looked thoughtfully at Monica. ‘And the police will be coming here. Monica!’

Monica looked up, her eyes unfocussed.

‘You almost told me, didn’t you?’

‘Told you what?’ Her voice was slurred.

‘You told me about the Gods and Goddesses. And then you realised what John meant when he was talking about something being Wagnerian.’

Monica sat up a little. ‘Did I?’

‘Oh, yes. And I nearly got there by mentioning Brunnhilde, didn’t I?’

Monica said nothing. Wilhelmina was looking puzzled. Libby eased herself towards the edge of her seat and brushed a little more glass from her shirt. She felt quite calm now.

‘It’s an opera,’ she told Wilhelmina. ‘And Brunnhilde falls in love with her nephew Siegfried, not knowing he’s her nephew. And Siegfried himself is the son of Siegmund and Sieglinde, neither of whom knows that they are brother and sister.’ She looked at Monica, who was sitting with her mouth open. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Monica? Brother and sister. Just like you and Bill.’

Chapter Thirty-six

‘So who killed John and Bill?’ said Libby.

‘She did, of course,’ came a quiet voice from behind Libby.

Ian Connell walked over to Monica and crouched down beside her. ‘It was you, Monica, wasn’t it? Did you join in on Beltane Night?’

Libby and Wilhelmina, their mouths open, sat motionless. Monica focussed on Ian and nodded slightly. A female police officer came quietly up on her other side and Libby was aware of further bodies behind her.

‘What did you do?’ Ian’s voice was still quiet, comforting almost.

‘John said he would tell Bill.’ Her voice was rusty. ‘I got out our son’s old Cranston Morris costume and went and hid in the woods. Then I just joined in. And when we got to the edge of – when we got to the edge,’ Ian nodded, ‘I whispered to him, and he was so surprised. And I made him go down the hill a bit and then I hit him.’

‘What with?’ asked Ian.

‘A hammer. Bill’s hammer. He fell down to the bottom and I went on so I could join in the dances. No one noticed.’

‘What about the clothes? And your black face?’

‘I hid the clothes and got my make-up off before Bill got home. Then in the morning he found the letter. It must have been there the night before, although I missed it, because it was by hand. No post on Bank Holidays.’

‘And you killed Bill?’

‘I put the clothes on again. Danced with them. I used to watch them, you see, even if they didn’t know I did. Then I stabbed him with his own paperknife. It was an old awl.’ She was looking wistfully into the past.

‘Why did you kill him?’

‘Because he was going to end the marriage, of course.’ She sat up straight, her face clearing a little. ‘I couldn’t have that. I’ve kept the secret ever since I found out.’

‘When was that?’ asked Ian.

‘Before we were married. No one would ever find out. But then I told John.’

‘Why did you tell John?’

‘Because he wouldn’t come back to me, he said I was married to Bill, so I told him that I couldn’t be, not really. And he was – angry.’

‘And he said he’d tell Bill?’

‘So I killed him before he could. But he’d put the letter in the letter box. I couldn’t have Bill ruining our lives.’ She shook her head. ‘So silly.’

Ian stood up and repeated the usual warning to Monica Frensham, who hardly seemed to take it in, and the police officer helped her to her feet. Libby stood up, though her legs threatened to give way, and stepped forward.

‘If there’s anything you need, Monica,’ she said. Monica stared at her.

‘Come on, Libby,’ Ian put an arm round her shoulders. ‘We’re going to get you home.’

‘What about –’ Libby gestured to Wilhelmina sitting on the floor.

‘Unless you want to press charges of assault? I take it she threw the picture?’

Libby nodded. ‘If she hadn’t I might not have realised.’ She shuddered. ‘Brother and sister. How awful. How do you suppose she found out?

‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, although she seems willing enough to talk at the moment.’

‘She’s not right, is she?’ Libby went to get into the Renault, but Ian stopped her.

‘Leave it here, Lib. You’re in no state to drive, and your Ben will be fit to be tied when he hears what’s been happening. We’ll get you home.’

‘I want to know what’s happened, though, Ian. At the barn and everything. I did lead you there.’

‘I know, I know. Once the paperwork is done, I promise I’ll come and fill you in.’

‘Tonight? Can the others be there?’

‘Strictly off the record, but yes, OK.’ He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and saw her into a police car. ‘Go on. I’ll ring you and tell you when I can there.’

It was past ten o’clock when Ian arrived at Number 17 Allhallow’s Lane. Fran and Guy had driven over, bringing bottles of sparkling wine, Ben, after reading the riot act, had persuaded Harry to send Adam round with a take-away, and Peter had arrived with a bottle of whisky. Harry and Adam promised to come round as soon as the Pink Geranium’s customers had all gone home.

Ben gave Ian a large whisky and a plate of Harry’s best vegetarian pate and bread.

‘I hope it isn’t Diggory’s,’ said Libby, eyeing it thoughtfully.

‘I don’t care if it is,’ said Ian. ‘I haven’t eaten since this morning.’

Fran patted him on the arm. ‘It was very good of you to come,’ she said. ‘You really should have gone home to bed.’

Libby sent her a fulminating glare, but Ian laughed.

‘I owe it to Libby,’ he said. ‘She was the catalyst.’ Libby looked smug.