Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (2 page)

Chapter Three

Detective Chief Inspector Ian Connell pushed open the door of The Pink Geranium.

‘Coffee?’ said Harry.

‘No, we don’t know anything about it,’ said Libby.

DCI Connell looked amused. ‘Yes, to the coffee, Harry, and no, I didn’t think you did, Libby.’

‘Oh.’ Libby deflated.

Harry brought a mug for Ian and sat down at the table. ‘What, then?’

‘I simply wanted to know how much you know about this ukulele group. They were in touch with you, weren’t they?’

‘Only to ask if they could rehearse in the theatre,’ said Libby. ‘Ben put them on to the church hall. Andrew’s had the most contact with them.’

‘Professor Wylie?’ Ian frowned.

‘There, see,’ said Libby, turning to Harry. ‘He did it, too.’

‘Not him, no,’ said Harry. ‘My Sir Andrew.’

‘Ah.’ Ian was enlightened. ‘McColl. I forgot he was a Sir.’

‘Well, he’s the one organising this concert, you see.’

‘So he asked a local amateur ukulele group to appear at his Christmas Concert?’ Ian’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I think they asked him,’ said Harry. ‘Putting the emphasis on Lewis.’

‘Ah, I heard he was involved.’ Ian sipped coffee and seemed to relax. ‘So that’s all you know?’

Libby shrugged. ‘Afraid so. Can you tell us what happened?’

‘Only what you can read in the papers later, or hear on the news. Vernon Bowling was found in the churchyard this morning by the sexton. His wife had actually reported him missing last night when he didn’t come home from a rehearsal.’

‘Yes, Lewis came into the pub asking for him,’ said Harry. ‘We didn’t know who it was, though.’

‘And I still don’t,’ said Libby.

‘You don’t?’ Ian seemed surprised.

‘Campbell McLean thought we ought to know, too,’ said Libby. ‘He was over here just before you.’

‘I saw,’ said Ian. ‘That’s why I came. Anyway, Vernon Bowling was the man who was involved in the scandal at Dellington, remember that?’

‘Er …’ Libby’s eyes swivelled towards Harry.

‘Dellington!’ Harry’s chair rocked backwards. ‘Yes. That experiment place.’

‘That’s it.’ Ian looked at Libby. ‘Bowling was one of the scientists at Dellington, which was a top secret government testing base.’

‘Oh – like that Porton Down?’

‘That’s it. And they were found to be testing lethal substances, which only came to light after a couple of the volunteers died.’

‘Horrible.’ Libby shuddered. ‘So is that why you think he was murdered? In revenge?’

‘It looks unlikely,’ said Ian. ‘It was a long time ago, and Bowling’s been out of the public eye for years. But,’ he sighed, ‘we’ll have to go through the other members of the group with a toothcomb.’

‘You shouldn’t be telling us,’ grinned Libby.

Ian smiled ruefully. ‘I know. It’s come to be a habit. Anyway, you don’t know any of them, so it really doesn’t matter.’

‘We do,’ said Harry. ‘We know Lewis and his mum.’

‘Oh, no. Is she a member, too?’

‘Yes. I went with her once to keep her company.’ Libby bit her lip. That wasn’t meant to come out.

Ian frowned. ‘I thought you said you didn’t know any of them?’

‘I don’t. I went once with Edie because Lewis couldn’t go that week, and she so enjoyed going, but she didn’t know any of the other members, so I didn’t actually meet them, either.’

‘Well,’ said Ian, getting to his feet, ‘I might show you a list of the other members when I’ve got it, just to see if you do know any of them. Or anything about them.’

‘And we won’t tell the Chief Constable,’ said Harry, also getting to his feet and holding the door open. ‘It’s Wednesday tonight, and we’ll be in the pub.’

‘If I’m not still sleuthing, I’ll see you there.’ Ian gave a wave and set off back to the crime scene.

‘Well, that’s a first,’ said Libby. ‘Ian asking for our help.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Harry. ‘He’s done it before.’

‘But not when we had no possible connection.’

‘But you
have
got a connection. The theatre and the concert.’

‘That’s very tenuous,’ said Libby, getting up and collecting her basket. ‘I’ll see you tonight. And you can tell
Sir
Andrew he can’t have the Friday.’

On Wednesday evenings, the Reverend Patti Pearson came to Steeple Martin to have dinner with her friend Anne Douglas at The Pink Geranium, after which they had formed the habit of joining Libby, Ben and Peter at the pub. Ian often joined them, especially if Libby was involved in something unsavoury. This evening, he arrived at the same time as Harry, who had left the closing of the restaurant to Libby’s son Adam, who occasionally worked for him.

‘What have you been up to now, Libby?’ said Patti, as Harry went to buy himself and Ian beer and coffee respectively.

‘Nothing,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘Why does everyone automatically assume I’m involved in something?’

‘Because there was a murder here last night it follows as the night the day,’ said Anne, moving her wheelchair to allow Ian to pull up a chair.

‘In this case,’ said Ian, ‘Libby actually isn’t involved. And as we’re all here, I might as well let you all see this list of names.’

‘What names?’ Ben peered across the table as Ian brought out a piece of paper.

‘The people in the ukulele group. If any of you know anything about any of them, perhaps you’ll tell me? Uniform have spoken to most of them by now, but they’re all saying they didn’t know the victim very well.’

‘Well, they would,’ said Libby. ‘What does his wife say?’

‘Not a lot yet. She’s not even sure how he got involved with the group, just that he’d become obsessed with the instrument.’

‘Who was the victim?’ asked Anne.

‘Vernon Bowling,’ said Ian

‘Vernon Bowling? Wasn’t he that scientist back in the seventies who killed people with drugs?’ said Patti.

‘At Dellington, yes.’

‘How do you all remember him? It was years and years ago,’ said Libby.

‘There was a scandal at the time, and then it was referred to Operation Antler.’

‘Eh?’ said Harry.

‘It was the police operation looking into chemical weapons test participants who weren’t properly informed about the possible dangers.’

‘Like those poor atom bomb people?’ said Libby.

‘Who were they?’ asked Patti.

‘Military people who were at the nuclear testing sites in the fifties. They had no protective clothing and were just told to turn their backs. They suffered awful effects from radiation exposure, and they’ve never been given any compensation.’ Libby’s voice had become indignant.

‘Well, not quite like them, but similar. In fact some of the Dellinger and Porton Down victims did get compensation – or rather, their relatives did. The victims themselves were simply sent to the families in sealed steel coffins.’

‘Bloody awful,’ muttered Peter. ‘Caring society we live in, don’t we?’

‘If Bowling was involved in that I’m not sure he didn’t deserve to die,’ said Ben.

‘Ben!’ Patti turned a shocked face to him. ‘You can’t say that! I expect he was under orders, anyway.’

‘It does suggest a motive, though,’ said Libby.

‘Well, it isn’t going to be an outraged parent at this distance,’ said Ben.

‘It could be,’ said Ian, ‘the parents would be in their eighties. But it could also be a sister? Brother? Even a niece or nephew.’

‘Bit far-fetched,’ said Anne. ‘Let’s have a look at that list.’

They all peered at Ian’s list.

‘Ron Stewart – is that Screwball Stewart?’ said Patti.

‘No idea,’ said Ian. ‘Who’s he?’

‘An old ex-rock star. He lives in Shott. Well, Bishop’s Bottom, actually.’

‘Does he now? Yes, that sounds like him.’

‘How do you know an old ex-rock star, Patti?’ said Libby.

‘Shott comes within my parish boundary. His name crops up now and then.’ Patti laughed. ‘You all looked so shocked!’

‘So you don’t actually know him, then?’ said Ian.

‘Oh, I’ve met him a couple of times, but we’re not exactly on visiting terms. So I can’t go and do undercover snooping for you!’ Patti grinned mischievously.

‘Screwball Stewart,’ said Peter. ‘I remember him, don’t you, Ben?’

‘He was the drummer with Jonah Fludde. Drugs victim, wasn’t he?’

‘Jonah Fludde – I’ve heard of them,’ said Harry. ‘Seventies, weren’t they?’

‘Weren’t they all drugs victims then?’ said Ian. ‘Sorry – that’s generalising. Anyway, we’ll talk to him. Seems odd for a seventies rock star to be in a ukulele group, though, doesn’t it?’

‘Perhaps he was asked to be a draw, like Lewis?’ suggested Libby.

‘I don’t recognise any of the other names,’ said Ben. ‘Anyone else?’

They all shook their heads.

‘Are any of them from here? From Steeple Martin, I mean?’ said Libby. ‘I mean, it seems odd if they’re rehearsing here that none of the members are local. Who’s the organiser?’

‘I can’t remember,’ said Ben, pulling the paper back towards him. ‘Who is it, Ian?’

‘This one –’ Ian pointed. ‘Dr Eric Robinson.’

‘Is he a real doctor?’ asked Harry.

‘What do you mean?’ Ian grinned at him.

‘I mean, a medical doctor? Or a doctor of something else?’

‘No idea – again,’ said Ian. ‘I’ll try and find out for you. Now, how’s the panto coming along?’

Everyone accepted the change of conversation, but Libby was obviously still thinking about the murder as she and Ben walked home to Allhallow’s Lane.

‘I don’t buy that old seventies story as a motive, you know,’ she said. ‘It’s too old.’

‘I’m sure Ian will dig something else up,’ said Ben. ‘And anyway, didn’t someone once say the motive was the least of the problems? It’s the “how” that’s the most important.’

‘Well, that’s easy,’ said Libby. ‘He was hit on the head.’

‘But how was it done? Who has an alibi? Was anyone seen? That’s what they’ll be looking for.’

‘I still think the “why” is important. Anybody could have walloped him after their rehearsal and just slipped away with everyone else. They could even have been in the pub when Lewis came in to ask. I think looking into all the members to see who had a link to the victim is the only way forward. That’s why Ian came to us – to see if we knew anyone on the list.’

Ben looked dubious. ‘If it was, then he’ll be doing it – looking into the suspects. Not you.’

‘Oh, of course not,’ said Libby, suspiciously innocent.

The next morning, as soon as Ben had gone off to his office in the Manor, Libby was on the phone to her friend Fran Wolfe.

‘Ian did come to the pub last night!’

‘Eh?’

‘I told you he said he might. He told us a bit more about the murder.’

‘He did? Why?’

‘I told you yesterday,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘Everybody seemed to assume I knew something about the victim and I didn’t, but Ian brought a list of the members of the ukulele group to the pub to see if anyone knew anything about some of them. And guess who did?’

‘Patti,’ said Fran promptly.

‘How did you know that?’ Libby was indignant.

‘Because of the way you said it. It had to be the least likely person.’

‘But you’ll never guess who it was she knew! Screwball Stewart!’

‘Screwball – who?’

‘Ron Stewart – known as Screwball. He was the drummer in Jonah Fludde.’

‘Jonah – oh yes, I remember. They were prog rock, weren’t they?’

‘Wow, Fran! I’m surprised you know that!’

Fran laughed. ‘I wasn’t always middle-aged any more than you were!’

‘No. Funny though, I can’t think of Jonah Fludde being middle-aged.’

‘I rather liked them. They used fiddles – and didn’t they have an oboe? I rather think they’re still going in a revised form.’

‘Really? How do you know that?’

‘I’ve seen their name on a couple of festival posters.’

‘How,’ said Libby, ‘do you get to see festival posters?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Fran vaguely. ‘Lucy goes to them.’

‘With the children?’

‘Oh, yes. I gather there are lots of families. Anyway, how does Patti know this person?’

‘He lives in a village that is one of hers. A place called Shott. Do you know it?’

‘I’ve seen it on signposts. So don’t tell me this Stewart’s a parishioner?’

‘No,’ said Libby, ‘she said he just crops up. She’s met him. I expect the village trot him out as a tame celebrity now and again.’

‘And you say he’s in the ukulele group? How odd!’

‘Well, yes. But what I was thinking was – how do you fancy a little drive out to Shott?’

Chapter Four

‘Libby!’

‘What? All I asked was –’

‘I heard what you asked,’ said an exasperated Fran. ‘You want to drive out to Shott and snoop around. Why, for goodness’ sake? You won’t find anything out just by being in the village – such as it is – and it’s absolutely none of your business anyway.’

‘I just thought –’

‘I know what you just thought,’ said Fran. ‘You are incurably nosy. And when you called me yesterday to tell me about it you said it wasn’t fair bringing a murder right to your own doorstep. Which, incidentally, isn’t the first time.’

‘No, I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘It’s become automatic, I suppose.’

‘Being nosy?’

‘Well, yes.’ She was silent for a moment, then brightened. ‘But there’s nothing to stop me going for a little drive in the country, is there?’

Fran sighed. ‘If you’re determined, then I’ll have to come with you.’

‘Why “have to”?’

‘Because if I’m not with you you’ll do something stupid.’

‘I’m not going to resent that remark,’ said Libby loftily, ‘because I should prefer to have your company rather than going alone.’

Fran sighed deeply again. ‘I’ll pick you up,’ she said.

The road to the village of Shott led off the Canterbury road in the other direction to Steeple Cross and Keeper’s Cob.

‘This is a bit like Dark Lane,’ muttered Libby, as Fran manoeuvred round a narrow bend bordered on both sides by tall, bare trees and tangled undergrowth.

‘Not as intimidating, somehow,’ said Fran. ‘Look, here’s Itching.’

‘Bloody strange names they’ve got round here,’ said Libby. ‘Do we go straight through Itching?’

‘Signpost,’ said Fran. ‘There.’

Libby peered out at the small black-and-white metal signpost that indicated a right turn to Shott and Bishop’s Bottom.

‘Down there,’ she said. ‘Shott Lane.’

Shott Lane led downhill between more heavy vegetation. As the first thatched cottage appeared before them on their right, to the left Libby saw an old chapel with a drunken “For Sale” sign outside.

‘I bet that would be lovely if you converted it,’ she said. ‘Look – a pub.’

The lane widened out to divide round a small green. Between two cottages opposite they could see an obviously Norman church, and nearer, on the corner of another road, a long, low pub, its swinging sign announcing it to be “The Poacher”.

‘I’ll park on the forecourt,’ said Fran. ‘It’s after opening time, so we could get a coffee.’

‘The idealised view of English rural life,’ said Libby, getting out of the car. ‘No shop, no post office, no transport …’

‘You’re wrong there,’ said Fran. ‘Look.’ She pointed across the green to a small building looking like a Portakabin, “Shop” proudly displayed across its front.

‘A community one, do you think?’ asked Libby. ‘Like the one in Patti’s village?’

‘Looks like it. Come on, let’s go inside. We don’t want them to think we’re taking advantage parking here.’

The pub, like so many of its ilk, had turned itself into a restaurant for the most part. Libby and Fran approached the bar through a forest of empty tables and chairs. A rather surprised-looking landlord greeted them.

‘Morning, ladies. What can I get you?’

‘Could we have coffee, do you think?’ asked Libby.

‘Sure. How do you want it?’

When they had negotiated the niceties of the coffee menu, the landlord put their mugs in front of them and cocked an enquiring eyebrow.

‘So, don’t get visitors here at this time of the year,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’

‘We found you by accident,’ said Fran hastily, before Libby could put her foot in it. ‘Fascinated by the names of the villages.’

‘Yeah – a lot of people are,’ said the landlord. ‘Mind you, good for us in the tourist season. And we get a lot of Americans and such like looking for their ancestors.’

‘Are there a lot of local names still here?’ asked Libby. ‘We’ve got some in my village – a lot of Hoads for instance.’

The landlord nodded. ‘We’ve got some Hoads, here, too. And a lot of Hoddens. Vicar reckons they was all one family one time.’ He grinned. ‘And a right bunch they are, too! Mostly farmers and labourers and the like. And half of ʼem live down Rogues Lane an’ all!’ He laughed uproariously.

‘Really?’ Libby smiled, a little disbelieving.

‘No, true.’ He nodded. ‘Rogues Lane’s over the green. Goes up to Bishop’s Bottom. Got Hoads and Hoddens living down there. Used to be Hodden Farm.’

‘Isn’t the farm there any more?’ asked Fran.

‘Nah. They built some great new house there instead.’

‘Who? The Hoddens?’ said Libby.

‘No. Last owners sold the land. Some of the Hoads was sitting tenants in the cottages, but the Hoddens had all bought theirs. So they stayed. New owner got the big house.’

‘New owners built it?’ said Fran.

‘Some builder built it.’

‘Not Ron Stewart?’ asked Libby.

The landlord looked surprised. ‘You know Ron?’

‘Well, no, only who he was. We did know he lived here.’

The landlord’s eyes narrowed. ‘So that’s why you came here? Now, old Ron keeps himself to hisself these days. Don’t want no fuss.’

‘No, of course not.’ Fran was soothing. ‘It’s my fault. I’ve driven along the Canterbury road from Nethergate and passed the sign for “Itching, Shott, and Bishop’s Bottom” so often, I just had to come and see what they were like.’

‘Oh, ah.’ The landlord took down a glass and began to polish it unnecessarily. ‘Well, Ron don’t live in the big house, anyway.’

‘Is the shop a community one?’ asked Libby, desperately trying to save the situation. ‘A friend of ours helps run one over at St Aldeberge. It’s very successful.’

‘Yeah.’ The answer was somewhat grudging. ‘Opens every day except Sunday. All volunteers, o’course.’

‘Yes, Patti’s is, too,’ said Fran.

‘St Aldeberge?’ The landlord now looked up. ‘That’s our Rev Patti, isn’t it?’

‘Yes!’ said Fran surprised.

‘Oh, I remember, now,’ said Libby. ‘Shott’s one of hers, isn’t it? She said something about parish boundary.’

The landlord had now become friendly again. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Poor lass has more than enough to cope with. This is the parish of St Aldeberge, Shott, and Bishop’s Bottom. Then she’s got those villages the other side.’

‘The mining villages,’ nodded Libby. ‘She does get a bit overworked. But she comes to see us nearly every week on her day off.’

‘So you’re friends of our Rev Patti. Oh, well, that’s nice.’ He leant his elbows on the counter. ‘Nasty do over at St Aldeberge’s the other year, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Very nasty.’ Libby shivered, remembering.

‘You wasn’t involved in that, was you?’ said the landlord, his eyes growing round.

‘A bit,’ said Fran uncomfortably. ‘She’s a friend. We did what we could.’

‘Oh, ah.’ The landlord suddenly leant across the bar and peered into their faces. ‘Got it!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘That play! In that church place – there was a murder there, too, wasn’t there?’

‘Er – yes.’ Libby was now even more uncomfortable than Fran. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, Mr – er –’

‘Sid Best.’ He held out a hand.

‘My –’ began Libby, before Fran broke in.

‘Fran Wolfe,’ she said shaking Sid’s hand, ‘and this is Libby Sarjeant. Now we must get on. If we go through Bishop’s Bottom we can get through to St Aldeberge, can’t we?’

‘Yes, straight up Rogues Lane. You’ll see the big house on the left.’ He grinned. ‘Give my best to Rev Patti.’

‘Not the best idea to tell him you have a cat called Sidney,’ Fran reproved as they went back to the car.

‘I didn’t!’

‘You were just about to,’ said Fran. ‘So what did you learn?’

‘That Ron Stewart is protected by the village and Sid Best saw the play last year at St Eldreda’s. He recognised us.’ Libby glanced at her friend. ‘Quick thinking of mine to introduce Patti.’

‘You didn’t, really. He was the one who took it up. And yes, it was lucky.’ Fran started the engine. ‘We’ll drive round the green slowly and have a good peer at the houses.’

The few houses round the small green were all beautifully kept and rather smug.

‘Second homes, do you reckon?’ said Libby. ‘It’s almost too perfect to be true.’

‘Commuter homes, wouldn’t you think?’ said Fran. ‘Nice church, what we can see of it.’

‘Oh, this is more like it,’ said Libby, as they turned left into Rogues Lane, where a row of flint cottages flanked the right side of the road, looking as though they’d grown out of the ground.

‘The Hoddens’ cottages, I suppose,’ said Fran, ‘and look. That must be the big house.’

Just beyond the cottages, on their left, a large, neo-Georgian house in red brick with white pillasters stood on a slight rise, screaming its newness to the world.

‘Wonder who lives there?’ said Libby, as they drove slowly past. ‘Not Ron, obviously.’

‘And our Sid didn’t tell us, either,’ said Fran. ‘Are we really going on to see Patti?’

‘No, of course not. She’s probably up to her ears in parish work and wouldn’t thank us for dropping in.’

‘We could ring,’ said Fran.

‘We could offer to take her to lunch,’ agreed Libby, pulling out her phone.

‘But not here,’ said Patti, after Libby had issued the invitation. ‘How about The Red Lion in Heronsbourne?’

‘Shall we pick you up?’ asked Libby.

‘No, I’ll drive over, then you don’t have to make a detour to take me back. See you in – what? Half an hour?’

‘It’ll be nice seeing George again,’ said Libby, putting her phone back in her pocket. ‘That’s another of Patti’s churches, isn’t it? St Martha’s?’

‘George told you it was,’ said Fran. ‘Now, how do we get to Heronsbourne from here?’

‘After we go through Bishop’s Bottom, shouldn’t we hit that narrow lane that leads off the Canterbury road to St Aldeberge? Then we can turn right on to that.’

‘Oh, yes, and it comes out almost opposite the road to Heronsbourne, doesn’t it?’

Bishop’s Bottom, which proved to be as small as, or smaller than, Itching and Shott, was nothing more than a crossroads with a couple of large houses on the outskirts, one of which was the twin of the big house in Shott.

‘Same builder,’ said Fran. ‘Here’s where we turn right.’

Libby and Fran had first been to The Red Lion in Heronsbourne some years ago when looking into another murder. George, the landlord, had subsequently provided them with odd snippets of information in the course of their other adventures. He beamed a welcome as they entered the bar.

‘And what is it now?’ he asked as he handed over two large coffees. ‘Had a new murder, I hear.’

‘No,’ said Fran. ‘We’re taking Patti to lunch.’

‘And we went to another one of her villages earlier,’ added Libby. ‘Shott – do you know it?’

‘Course I know it. Sid Best has The Poacher over there.’

‘Yes, we had coffee there, too,’ said Fran.

George narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah. You
are
looking into it, then.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Libby.

‘Ron Stewart lives there.’

‘Yes?’ prompted Fran.

‘He belonged to that group. Where the bloke was found dead. In your village,’ George said to Libby, who sighed.

‘No fooling you, George, is there? But we’re not actually looking into it. I was just being nosy. We didn’t know it was one of Patti’s churches until she told us when she said she knew Ron Stewart. Well, not knew exactly, but she’d met him.’

‘He gets wheeled out for the odd event,’ said George. ‘We have a joint Villages Show in autumn, Shott, us, and St Aldeberge, and old Screwball presents the odd prize. He’s donated a cup for something or other. Can’t remember what.’

‘What’s he like?’ asked Fran.

‘Quiet bloke,’ said George, turning to serve another customer. ‘Looks the part, though.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Libby.

‘Oh, you know, leather jacket, T-shirt, jeans, big boots. Longish hair, although he’s going a bit bald now. Leastways, he was when I saw him back in October.’

‘At the village show?’

‘No, he came in here. Gawd knows why. He uses The Poacher mostly.’

‘Was he on his own? Perhaps he had a friend who lives here,’ suggested Fran.

‘He was with someone else, but I didn’t know him,’ said George. ‘Look out – here comes the vicar!’

Patti hurried up to the counter.

‘I’ve just found something out,’ she said, in a breathless voice. ‘Vernon Bowling lives in Shott too.’