Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (16 page)

Chapter Thirty

Libby walked down Allhallow’s Lane to meet Andrew on the corner by the vicarage. The sky was a uniform grey and a sneaky little wind lifted tendrils of hair and blew up sleeves. A dark, sleek car purred to a halt beside her, and Andrew leant across to open the door.

‘How did Dr Robinson sound when you asked for a meeting?’ she asked as she fastened her seat belt.

‘Resigned,’ said Andrew. ‘He didn’t even ask me why.’

‘So he knows what’s coming. I wonder why he didn’t talk to his members and suggest pulling out before this?’

‘We don’t know – he may have done.’

Libby shook her head. ‘Not until yesterday afternoon he hadn’t. I was speaking to Edie, Lewis’s mum, telling her that Bob Alton, one of the older members, had pulled out, and she said she was going to do the same, but she didn’t mention hearing anything from Robinson.’

‘He probably called them all after he’d spoken to me. I suspect this meeting will be largely unnecessary.’

‘But we might find out some more about the members,’ said Libby.

‘I can’t see how. You can hardly ask the man if he thinks any of his members had a motive for murdering his friend.’ Andrew indicated right towards Itching and Shott. ‘Now, where’s Hollow Lane?’

‘Is it in Itching? Because it’s a tiny village. I didn’t realise Robinson lived here, too. Sandra and Alan Farrow do, and Derek Chandler. They live in Providence Row.’

‘That doesn’t help, Libby,’ said Andrew as they emerged on to the main village street. ‘Look, there’s your Providence Row.’

‘And there’s Hollow Lane,’ said Libby, pointing to a gap between two stone-built cottages.

Andrew slowed the car. ‘We can’t drive down there. We’ll have to park somewhere and walk.’

They found a space to park at the bottom end of the high street where there were no yellow lines and began to walk back.

‘There must be another way in,’ said Libby. ‘Unless no one who lives there has a car.’

‘Well, Robinson has one. I saw him get into his on the night of the meeting in the theatre, so you’re right. There must be another way in.’

Hollow Lane was, unbelievably, cobbled. It led between the two side walls of the stone cottages, between two high garden walls, then widened a little and ran between terraces of cottages very like the ones in Rogues Lane in Shott. It struck Libby as dank and dismal as a Victorian etching.

Further along, the lane became steadily more rural, with occasional cottages and finally, one much larger house.

‘This is it.’ Andrew walked between two impressive iron gates up to a forecourt where three cars stood. ‘Definitely another way in, then.’ He went up to the front door and rung the bell.

Eric Robinson opened the door almost immediately, still aspiring to the image of a country gentleman circa 1950.

‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ said Andrew, holding out his hand, ‘but we came in from the Shott end of the lane. There must be another way in?’

Libby was sure she saw the suspicion of a satisfied smirk on Robinson’s face as he shook Andrew’s hand.

‘Ah, yes, perhaps I should have told you. I’m afraid we always assume people know the way in. You go via Bishop’s Bottom. Ah – Mrs Sarjeant.’

A woman rose to her feet as they were shown into an over-furnished sitting room.

‘My wife, Veronica,’ Robinson waved in her direction. ‘Do you think we could have coffee, my dear?’

Veronica Robinson nodded, smiled tentatively at Libby and left the room. Libby looked after her, slightly astonished. The woman looked as though she was dressed for a part in a period play, the perfect wife to play opposite the country gentleman.

‘I expect you’ve guessed what this is about,’ said Andrew, after they had taken their seats on squashy sofas.

‘You want our group out of the concert.’ Robinson nodded. ‘I’m not surprised. At first we thought it would be fine, but as time has gone on …’ He stopped.

‘Exactly. Various members of your group are under suspicion, Mrs Bowling has attempted suicide –’ Libby watched for a reaction to this, but there was none, ‘– and Mrs Sarjeant here has been attacked.’

This time there was a reaction. Robinson turned to Libby, a horrified expression on his face.

‘You – you were attacked?’

‘Yes.’

Robinson looked as if he didn’t know what to say, and was saved by the entry of his wife carrying a tray.

‘Ah – yes, thank you, Veronica. Remiss of me – I didn’t introduce you – this is Sir Andrew McColl and Mrs – er – Sarjeant.’ A sheen of perspiration had appeared on his brow and Libby wondered why.

Veronica Robinson murmured something and sat down beside the table on which she set the tray.

‘So,’ Robinson turned back towards Libby. ‘You were attacked? I do hope you weren’t hurt?’

‘She spent the night in hospital,’ said Sir Andrew, in his best thespian manner. ‘The doctors were quite worried.’ Libby tried not to grin.

‘I didn’t know,’ said Robinson. ‘I’m so sorry. And this was – er – is connected to poor Vernon’s murder?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ said Andrew. ‘The police, obviously, are investigating. Ah, thank you, Mrs Robinson.’ He took a cup from the woman, who, Libby now noticed, had unwashed hair and bitten nails.

‘Well,’ said Robinson, with a sigh, ‘I can understand that the presence of the group might be an embarrassment in the concert. I have actually warned several of our members that this was likely to happen.’

‘And I believe some have already left,’ said Libby, again watching carefully for a reaction.

‘Indeed?’ Robinson looked confused. ‘I haven’t heard …’

‘Robert Alton, Lewis Osbourne-Walker and his mother and Mike Farthing.’ Libby crossed her fingers, having no idea if Mike or Lewis wanted to leave, but assuming they would. ‘Which robs the group of one of its celebrity members, of course. I suppose Ron Stewart will be staying with you, though.’

‘Ah – yes. I have spoken to him, but none of the others you mentioned. Although I understand Mike himself is – er – under investigation?’

It was a question, not a statement. Andrew looked at Libby.

‘Several people are,’ said Libby non-committally. Robinson looked dissatisfied.

‘The police seem to think it had to be a member of the group who killed him,’ offered Andrew.

‘I don’t know why. Anyone could have got into that churchyard. I mean, why was he there anyway? It wasn’t on the way to the car park.’ Robinson looked at his wife. ‘You don’t think one of us killed him, do you, Veronica?’

Veronica looked plainly astonished.

‘Well, do you?’

Veronica slowly shook her head. Libby caught a surreptitious glance at a photograph which stood on a small table beside the fireplace. It was angled away from her, but she determined to have a look at it before they left. There was definitely something going on here.

‘I’m glad you’ve taken it so well.’ Andrew stood up and Robinson looked confused. ‘Leaving the concert, I mean.’

‘Oh.’ Robinson’s shoulders slumped. ‘I think I might break up this group. Concentrate on the Canterbury one.’

Libby also stood up. ‘Those members of this group can always join that one, can’t they?’ She turned to Veronica. ‘Thank you for the coffee, Mrs Robinson.’ She went towards her, holding out her hand, which Veronica took warily. Libby glanced quickly at the photograph, then smiled at Veronica, detached her hand and went back to Andrew.

Robinson showed them out, looking depressed.

‘What did you think of that,?’ asked Libby as they walked back down Hollow Lane.

‘He wasn’t exactly the picture of calm, was he?’ replied Andrew. ‘And that poor woman!’

‘I honestly didn’t think there were any wives like that left,’ said Libby. ‘She’s completely cowed, and doesn’t even bother with her appearance. Do you think he beats her?’

‘Libby!’ Andrew was shocked.

‘Lots of women are, and still stay with their husbands and partners,’ said Libby reasonably.

Andrew shook his head.

‘Well, what about his reaction to my attack?’

‘Natural horror at a mugging?’

‘More than that.’ Libby gave a decisive nod. ‘It looked as though he actually suspects someone in the group, and couldn’t work out why they’d attacked me. Or else he knows who the murderer is, and knows that person couldn’t have attacked me.’

‘I think you’re reading too much into it, Libby. The man’s just had what would be a prestigious gig taken away from him, and now knows that the group’s collapsing around him. He’s just depressed about it.’

‘Hmm,’ said Libby.

The walk back down Hollow Lane seemed to take half as long as the walk up it. ‘That’s because we know where we’re going,’ said Libby.

‘Should we go and see Derek Chandler while we’re here?’ she asked, as they came out on to the high street, with Providence Row almost opposite.

‘What for?’ Andrew stopped and turned to face her. ‘Libby, this is not an investigation. Not for me, anyway. Now, I’m going to drive you back to Steeple Martin, then I shall say goodbye to Hal and go back to London.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Libby cast a disgruntled look over her shoulder at Providence Row and followed Andrew to his car.

Making an effort once they were on the way back to Steeple Martin, Libby asked who Andrew might get in to replace the ukulele group in the Christmas Concert.

‘I’m going to have to pull in a few favours, as I said, but I don’t want to use an unknown, tempting though it is to give someone a chance. After all, we’ve sold out, haven’t we? Pity we couldn’t do it for more than one night.’ He looked sideways at his passenger.

‘Even if you could,’ said Libby, ‘would your other guests be willing to give up more than one night?’

Andrew sighed. ‘That’s true. Well, I suppose I shall have to go through the address book when I get home. Or perhaps my agent’s address book.’

‘I wonder,’ said Libby slowly, ‘if perhaps Ron Stewart would do it?’

Andrew turned startled eyes towards her. ‘What?’

‘Well, he was prepared to do it as part of the group, and he was billed as such, same as Lewis. Couldn’t we ask him?’

Andrew thought for a moment. ‘I suppose we could. You’ve ruled him off your suspect list, have you?’

‘No,’ said Libby brightly. ‘He’s still right up there with Derek Chandler.’

‘In which case, he might be hauled off in irons before the concert and we’d be worse off than before.’

‘But we could ask him and see how he responded. Then we could find an excuse not to use him.’

‘Libby!’ Andrew banged an exasperated hand on the steering wheel. ‘This isn’t a game! I can understand how annoyed your Inspector Connell gets with you. Give it up and leave it to me.’

Libby subsided and gazed out of the side window as Andrew turned towards Steeple Martin.

‘Drop me at the corner,’ she told him as the car turned into the high street. ‘Save you having to turn round.’

He stopped the car and leant over to give her a kiss on the cheek.

‘Sorry I snapped. I’ll let you know about the change of programme as soon as I can.’

Libby smiled, climbed out of the car and waved him off.

‘And I’ll go and ask Ron Stewart whether you like it or not.’

Chapter Thirty-one

‘Libby, you can’t!’ Fran wailed down the phone line. ‘That’s ridiculous! What will you say to him?’

‘I told you. As the ukulele group are now out of the concert, had he thought of doing a solo spot instead.’

‘And – supposing he even sees you – what do you say if he says “yes”?’

‘I shall tell him I’ll put it before Sir Andrew and I’m just sounding him out.’

‘He’s Screwball Stewart for goodness’ sake. It doesn’t work like that.’

‘Well, how does it work? You have to ask people to do things or they’d never get done,’ said Libby reasonably.

‘I’ll tell you what would be better, if you must keep meddling,’ said Fran. ‘Why don’t you ask Sandra when the group are having their next meeting. You could go along to that as the representative of the theatre – to apologise, perhaps.’

Libby considered. ‘Not bad. Would you come with me?’

Fran sighed. ‘I suppose so. Depending on when it is. And don’t forget your rehearsal schedule.’

‘I’m not likely to, am I? I’ll call Sandra and let you know.’

To Libby’s frustration, Sandra was not in.

‘I’m sorry, but are you Alan?’ Libby asked.

‘Yes.’ It was the voice of an old man, which somehow surprised Libby. ‘And you must be the friend from Steeple Martin Sandra was telling me about?’

‘Yes, Libby Sarjeant. I’m on the board of the theatre. I don’t know if you’ve heard from Dr Robinson – um – recently?’

‘He called just a while ago. We’re not doing the concert, it seems.’

‘Yes,’ said Libby. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but under the circumstances …’

‘Bad taste, I know. Don’t worry, my dear. We’re having a bit of an emergency meeting this evening –’

‘This evening? Oh, bother,’ interrupted Libby.

‘What?’ Alan Farrow sounded put out.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Farrow, but I was hoping I could come along and explain if you had a meeting. I feel bad about the concert.’ Libby crossed her fingers.

‘And you couldn’t come this evening?’

‘No, I’m sorry. Well, never mind, perhaps you’ll convey my – er – sentiments to the group?’

‘Of course.’ Now Alan Farrow sounded bewildered.

‘Thank you. And you’ll tell Sandra I called?’

Alan Farrow assured her he would and rang off.

‘So that’s that idea scuppered,’ Libby reported to Fran. ‘It’ll have to be the Ron Stewart angle after all.’

‘No, Libby. That is quite ridiculous, and I doubt very much if he would see you anyway. He’s probably surrounded by high-tech security and possibly guard dogs, too.’

Libby chewed her lip. ‘How am I going to speak to him then? I must see if he’s a viable suspect.’

‘Libby – what’s got into you? I know you always want to get to the bottom of things, but there’s no way you’re going to be able to get any further with this. Leave it to Ian and his minions.’

Libby sighed. ‘All right. But I don’t know how I’m going to live with that.’

But, as it happened, she didn’t have to.

Just as she and Ben were leaving the house to go to the theatre that evening, the phone rang. Libby darted back indoors to answer it and tripped over the step.

‘Yes?’ she said breathlessly.

‘Did I disturb you, Libby?’

‘Oh, Sandra! No, not exactly. I was half out the front door on the way to rehearsal.’

‘Oh, I see. Alan said you called. He told you about our meeting?’

‘Yes.’ Libby groaned inwardly. ‘I was so sorry I couldn’t be there.’

‘Well, actually, that was what I was ringing about. Apparently The Poacher has an event on tonight, so we can’t go there, and we’re coming to Steeple Martin.’

‘What? To the hall?’

‘No – they’ve got something on, too. No, we’re coming to the pub. Well, it used to be my local. Where I played darts. So, I thought, maybe …’

Libby thought furiously. ‘What time are you meeting?’

‘Not until nine. A lot of people had things to do.’

‘I’ll come as soon as I can after rehearsal,’ said Libby. ‘I might even let them off early!’

‘And what,’ said Ben, as she tucked her arm through his and set off down the lane, ‘do you imagine you’re going to find out?’

‘I don’t know. But at least I’ll get a look at them. And maybe one of them will look guilty when he sees me.’

‘And supposing not many of them attend?’

‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ said Libby. ‘And I shall just send Fran a text.’

The pantomime cast were gratified but confused to be dismissed at half past nine and Libby left Ben and Peter to lock up the theatre on their own while she hurried down the drive towards the high street and the pub.

Sandra was in the snug, a room often appropriated by the theatre crowd, who were now milling disconsolately round the main bar. Libby went into the snug.

Eric Robinson looked up without enthusiasm, Mike Farthing with embarrassment, Sandra with a smile of welcome, and Lewis, to Libby’s surprise, with a grin and a wink.

‘What do you want to drink, petal?’ He stood up and pulled out a chair for her, while the rest of the company looked on with sour expressions.

Libby put in her order and sat down.

‘I’ve come to say how sorry I am about the change of plan.’ She looked round the table. ‘But under the circumstances, Sir Andrew felt he had no choice.’

The heads around the table nodded gloomy acquiescence. Lewis came back with her drink.

‘Do you know everybody, Lib?’ he asked. ‘I expect they all saw you at the other meeting, but you don’t know people, do you?’

Libby could have hugged him.

Apart from the four Libby already knew, there were only four others. Alan Farrow, pleasant, balding, and moustachioed, Chester Lucas, a jovial black man with a huge smile, Derek Chandler, with a pinched face, rimless glasses, and a comb-over, and Ron ‘Screwball’ Stewart, tall, his legs stretched out in worn jeans, with the sort of face usually described as ‘lived-in’. Libby eyed these last two with interest.

Chandler was almost too like the central casting version of a provincial solicitor, while Stewart was aiming for the same status as ‘ageing rock-star’. They both seemed familiar, but Libby guessed that she would have seen pictures of Stewart over the years, and Chandler would probably have been at the previous meeting in the theatre.

‘Er – I didn’t tell you,’ said Robinson, clearing his throat and looking shifty, ‘Mrs Sarjeant was attacked last week.’

All eyes turned to Libby.

‘It’s all right,’ she said hastily, ‘I’m quite recovered, but I did have to spend the night in hospital.’

Chandler looked at Robinson. ‘And is it connected …?’

‘The police think so,’ said Libby. ‘They’re assuming the same person who murdered Mr Bowling had a go at me.’

The members of the ukulele group exchanged furtive glances. There was definitely something going on here, thought Libby, although, to be fair, the Farrows and Chester Lucas just looked puzzled.

‘You know,’ said Sandra suddenly. ‘I think it would be a good idea for Libby to look into this for us.’

The men all looked at her, astonished.

‘Well, Libby’s had a lot of experience investigating murders,’ Sandra continued, ‘as I’m sure some of you know. And it looks as if this whole situation is damaging us as a group, especially since … er … since –’

‘Mrs Bowling’s suicide attempt,’ said Libby.

‘And several people have already left,’ said Robinson reluctantly.

Ron Stewart gave a grunt and sat up straight. ‘What would you do?’ he asked.

‘How do you mean?’

‘How would you investigate? The police are already asking questions.’

‘Lib would be asking different questions,’ said Lewis. They all looked at him. ‘She’s good, y’know. She helped me out of a bit of bother.’

Stewart shrugged and looked round at his fellow members. ‘Can’t hurt. Give it a go.’

Ron Stewart slipped to the bottom of Libby’s suspect list.

‘I’d be happy to ask some questions on your behalf,’ she said, wishing Fran was there, ‘but I’m not a professional. I’m just more likely to look at odd things than the police are.’

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ said Derek Chandler in a thin voice. There was a sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. ‘I think it could well work against the police investigation. We wouldn’t want to impede that.’

‘You’ve asked me questions, Libby,’ said Mike. ‘What did you find out?’

Libby recognised the challenge in Mike’s normally peaceable face. ‘Do you really want me to tell you in front of everyone?’ she asked.

Surprised, Mike looked round the table. ‘Well …’ he began.

‘I would like to know,’ said Libby, turning to Derek Chandler, ‘why, after she left my house, Denise Bowling rushed round to see you before attempting suicide. Why would she do that?’

Chandler looked even more uncomfortable. ‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Actually, it is. She had just been to see me to ask me to look into her husband’s murder.’ Libby crossed her fingers and didn’t dare to look at Sandra. The rest of the table looked interested and slightly apprehensive. ‘She became upset. So something said in my house prompted her to – to – to try and kill herself. I think that makes it my business.’

Chandler’s eyes slid sideways to meet Robinson’s, then across the table at Ron Stewart. ‘She didn’t tell me anything.’

‘Did she ask you anything?’ said Lewis. Chandler looked as though he’d been bitten by a butterfly.

‘No.’

‘Well, there,’ said Libby. ‘So asking me to look into your friend’s death wouldn’t work, would it? If no one would answer my questions. If everyone said it wasn’t my business.’ She stood up. ‘Once again, I’m sorry about the concert. I’m even sorrier about Mr and Mrs Bowling and my own rather uncomfortable episode. I’d help if I could, but obviously it isn’t a good idea.’ She smiled round the table. ‘I’ll let you know who Sir Andrew is able to get to replace you in the programme.’

Back in the other bar, the usual suspects were gathered round their table by the fire.

‘So?’ asked Ben, as Libby sat down. ‘Where did that get you?’

‘Precisely nowhere,’ said Libby, finishing the half pint of lager that Lewis had bought her and picking up the one waiting for her. ‘I was surprised to see Lewis, but I think he came to support me – although how he knew I’d be there I don’t know. And he’s leaving the group anyway.’

‘Well, you can ask him,’ said Peter. ‘Here he comes.’

‘You stirred ʼem up a bit, Lib.’ Lewis sat down with a grin. ‘They’re arguing among themselves now. I told ʼem I was leavin’ and so was Edie. Very down in the dumps they are.’

‘It strikes me that Derek Chandler and Dr Robinson don’t really want anybody asking questions,’ said Libby.

‘Dead right, kid. Something funny goin’ on, I reckon, although I don’t think either of them would have killed Bowling, however much of a tonk he was.’

‘Screwball Stewart surprised me, though. I wouldn’t have thought he would welcome some member of the public asking questions. He normally keeps a really low profile, doesn’t he?’

‘What did he say?’ asked Peter. Libby explained. ‘Ah, well, putting you off the scent I expect.’

‘Well, I’d keep quiet,’ said Ben. ‘He’s coming towards us.’

Ron Stewart stopped by the table, looming over Libby.

‘If he hasn’t found anybody for the concert,’ he said, ‘would you tell Sir Andrew I’ll do a solo spot?’