Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (5 page)

Chapter Nine

Libby stared. ‘I beg your pardon? What are you talking about?’

Monica Turner moved her vehicle a threatening yard closer to Libby and poked her head forward.

‘Those banjos. In the church hall – it’s sacrilege. And desecrating the graveyard,’ her lip trembled, ‘with the murder of that – that – 
man
. And you brought them here. Disturbing the peace. As if you couldn’t be satisfied with your so-called theatre – that Hetty Wilde should be ashamed of herself.’

Libby watched fascinated as spittle formed at the corners of Monica Turner’s improbably fuchsia lips.

‘Mrs Turner, I’m sorry you feel like that, but the vicar is surely the one you should talk to. She let the ukulele group hire the hall, and I don’t think she could be accused of conniving at a murder.’

‘Vicar! That woman’s no more a vicar than I am. I have to go all the way to Canterbury every Sunday now.’ The head poked even further forward, like an aggressive turtle.

‘You do? Why?’

‘Only place with a proper vicar.’ The spittle flew. ‘I shall write to the bishop.’ Monica Turner swung her vehicle abruptly round to cross the road and nearly knocked the postman off his bike.

‘Blimey!’ he said, watching the mobility scooter streak across towards Maltby Close. ‘What’s up with her?’

Bob the butcher appeared from the doorway of his shop. ‘She was just blaming our little local murder on Libby here.’ He shook his head. ‘Among other things. Needs her bloody eyes tested. Blind as a bat she is.’

‘Can’t understand why it wasn’t her who was murdered,’ said the postman, mounting his bike. ‘See yer.’

As he departed, so Libby saw Flo Carpenter hurrying across the road towards her.

‘What did the old bat want?’ she yelled. ‘She stirrin’ it again?’

Libby grinned. Flo was the queen of Maltby Close, and Hetty’s closest friend. Her late husband Frank had owned the barn which had formed the basis for the select Over Fifty-fives development of bungalows, and the community hall at its heart was named after him. Sadly, not all the residents, leaseholders all, were cut from quite the same cloth as Flo, who now arrived, panting.

‘She’s bin goin’ on at everybody about that uke group for weeks, and now she’s sayin’ it’s the devil’s work and serves ʼem right one of ʼem’s got himself done in. That what she’s bin sayin’?’ Flo’s accent reverted wholly to that of her East End upbringing in times of stress.

‘And blaming Libby for it,’ said Bob with a grin.

‘Silly ol’ cow.’ Flo patted her chest. ‘Cor, she do make me mad! If she’s goin’ round stirrin’ up trouble fer you, gal, she’d better watch out. I’ll ʼave the ʼole Close boycott ʼer!’

‘How?” asked Libby, amused.

‘Send ʼer to Coventry, that’s ʼow. Cor. I need something to settle me, now.’

Libby looked at her watch. ‘Come on, let’s go and get Harry to give us a glass of wine. Won’t be as good as yours, of course.’

‘Come on, then.’ Flo linked her arm through Libby’s. ‘Cheer-ho, Bob.’

‘You haven’t got your coat on,’ said Libby, as they made their way to The Pink Geranium.

‘Nah. Saw that old bat outa me winder and just run out the ʼouse.’

‘So it’s unlocked?’

‘Yeah. Don’t matter – no crime in the Close.’

‘Except murder.’

‘Weren’t in the Close, were it? Behind church.’

Libby opened the door of the restaurant and grinned at a surprised Harry.

‘We need stabilising glasses of wine, please, Hal. We’ve had an upset.’

‘That weren’t no upset. I’ll upset ʼer,’ said Flo, sinking down onto the sofa in the left-hand window.

‘I’ll pop over and lock the door, shall I?’ said Libby. ‘You can tell Harry all about it.’

‘All right, gal. Key’s on the mantelpiece.’

By the time Libby got back, Hal was sitting opposite Flo, a bottle of wine and three glasses on the low table between them.

‘Old cow,’ he said, as Libby sat down next to Flo. ‘She had the cheek to complain about Pete and me to the parish council once, did you know?’

‘About what?’ Libby asked.

‘She didn’t think “the likes of us” should be living in the village, and certainly shouldn’t be serving it meals. What she thought the parish council could do, I’m not sure.’

‘She was complaining about the vicar, too,’ said Libby. ‘Apparently she has to go all the way to Canterbury to get a proper male vicar.’

‘Yeah,’ said Flo. ‘She made a point of goin’ to the first service the poor gal held and getting up in the middle of the first prayers shoutin’ “abomination”. Well, not getting’ up, y’know. Then she turns that bloody machine round in the aisle and leaves. Rest of us didn’t know where to put ourselves.’

‘Poor vicar,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve not met her yet. Is she nice?’

‘She’s a good gal. I wasn’t sure at first, but I met your Patti, an’ I thought, “Well, she’s not so bad”, then young Bethany arrived. We all call her Beth.’

‘How do the rest of the Close like her?’ asked Libby.

‘Fine. She don’t badger us.’

‘She’s all right,’ said Harry surprisingly. ‘Comes in here with her husband.’

‘Oh, she’s married?’

‘Any reason why she shouldn’t be?’

‘None at all. All vicars used to be married, didn’t they? But the only ones I’ve met recently haven’t been.’

‘John’s all right, an’ all,’ said Flo. ‘Some kinda businessman. ʼE come round and mended my kettle last week.’

‘Mended your kettle?’ Libby repeated.

‘The fuse, or whatever it is.’ Flo shook her head impatiently. ‘I dunno. They ʼave these closed plugs these days. He did it, anyway. My Lenny’s no use.’

‘So Bethany and John have the approval of Maltby Close, all except Monica Turner,’ said Libby. ‘Has she got any friends?’

‘Oh, that Vi Little. She’s so mousy she just agrees with everything. And she plays bridge or whist or something somewhere every week. Dunno where.’ Flo’s accent was returning to its pre-upset normality.

‘Well, at least if she complains to the police about anything they won’t take it seriously,’ said Libby. ‘They know how to deal with people like that.’

‘They might suspect her for the murder, though!’ said Harry. ‘Serve her right.’

‘I can’t see her luring someone to the churchyard and beating him to death with her handbag, can you?’ said Libby, with a laugh.

With Flo restored to good temper, Libby went into Harry’s little courtyard and called up the spiral staircase to the flat above.

‘Cass? Fancy a pub lunch?’

‘What’s wrong with my lunch?’ muttered Harry from behind.

‘Nothing, but you won’t charge us.’

‘I will, if you want?’

Libby looked over her shoulder and grinned. ‘OK, then.’ She turned back. ‘Where is she? Have you seen her go out?’

‘I didn’t even see her come in,’ said Harry. ‘Shall I go up and knock?’

But there was no need. Cass appeared at the top of the steps.

‘Libby,’ she said, and stopped.

‘What?’ Libby went up a few steps. ‘Cass, what is it?’

‘The police. They’re questioning Mike.’

Libby held out a hand and pulled Cassandra down the rest of the steps and into the restaurant.

‘Now,’ she said, as they sat down on the old sofa again and Harry fetched a fresh glass. ‘How do you know?’

‘I rang to arrange a time for tomorrow. He answered and said he couldn’t talk, the police were there.’

‘Well, that’s nothing to be worried about,’ said Libby. ‘They’ll be talking to all the uke group members.’

‘But they’ve already done that, on Wednesday. He told me.’ Cass looked at the wine. ‘Hal, could I have white, please?’

Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘White? Of course.’

‘I’ll pay,’ Cass said.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Harry, disappearing into the kitchen.

‘Told you so,’ Libby called after him.

‘Told him what?’ asked Cassandra.

‘Nothing. Go on, so what else did he say?’

‘That was it. He answered the phone saying “Mike Farthing” – it was his mobile, you see – and when all I’d said was “Mike”, he just said “I can’t talk now. The police are here.” And he hung up.’

Harry returned with a bottle of dry sémillon.

Libby frowned. ‘Bit abrupt.’

‘That’s what I thought. It must be serious. What on earth can they want to talk to Mike about?’

Harry poured wine. ‘You don’t know him very well,’ he said. ‘Not personally.’

‘No, and he did know Vernon Bowling. He did his garden, didn’t he?’ Libby topped her own glass up with red.

‘I suppose so.’ Cassandra gnawed her lip. ‘But he
can’t
be a murderer. He’d no reason …’

‘You can’t possibly know that,’ said Libby. ‘But don’t worry. Unless they haul him off to the station, I expect he’ll ring you to apologise’

Cassandra smiled weakly. ‘What an idiot, I am. Behaving like a teenager.’

‘I thought that, too,’ said Libby, with a grin.

‘But you’ve never been close to murder before, have you,’ said Harry, sitting astride a chair and resting his arms along the back. ‘Whereas we have plenty of experience.’

‘Well, don’t boast about it,’ said Libby. ‘He’s right though, Cass. It comes as a bit of a shock. And if he does ring, if there’s anything I can do …’

‘What she means is she’s dying for a legitimate reason to poke her nose in,’ said Harry with a grin.

‘No,’ said Libby, trying to look shocked. ‘Just trying to help.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Harry swung himself off his chair and ruffled Libby’s wiry locks. ‘Now I’ve got to get back to work. Are you staying for lunch?’

‘No thanks, Hal. Cass, how about a trip to the seaside?’

‘To see Fran?’

‘Yes – and we can have lunch overlooking the harbour.’

‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ said Cass. She drained her wine and stood up. ‘Thanks, Harry. You must let me pay for the wine.’

‘And break the habit of a lifetime? Get away.’ Harry removed both bottles and looked dubiously at Libby. ‘You’ve had two – should you be driving?’

‘We’ll go in my car,’ said Cassandra. ‘I’ve only had one.’

While Cassandra went up to the flat to fetch her coat and car keys, Libby called Fran to apprise her of their imminent arrival.

‘She’s fallen for that Mike, then,’ said Harry, as she put her phone away.

‘Mad, isn’t it? She only met him yesterday. She’s been emailing him for years, though.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s a mad keen gardener and he owns a nursery.’

‘Oh, Farthing’s Plants. That one. Yeah, Pete told me last night.’

Cassandra appeared at the door. ‘Come on, then, Lib. Thanks again, Harry.’

Libby directed Cassandra out of the village and towards Nethergate, pointing out the Tyne Chapel where black masses had supposedly been held, and the road to Bishop’s Bottom which led ultimately to the Willoughby Oak, scene of more Satanic activity only a couple of years ago.

‘Why is there so much of that sort of thing round here?’ Cassandra asked, as they began to descend the hill towards Nethergate.

‘No more than anywhere else,’ said Libby. ‘Anywhere where there are old stories of witches or ancient murders is bound to attract modern-day witches. The Willoughby Oak was where they hanged a wise woman called Cunning Mary, and every year there are supposed to be carryings-on on the anniversary of her death by a black magic coven. Well, there were until a couple of years ago.’

‘Were you involved?’

‘Er – a bit. Look, we’re coming up to the square. Turn left there, and we’ll see how near to Coastguard Cottage we can park.’

Harbour Street glowed weakly under a pale November sun. Halfway along, past Guy’s gallery and shop and Lizzie’s ice cream booth, now shut until April, Coastguard Cottage stood, its white walls and blue paintwork looking rather smug among the duller grey and flint of the other cottages.

‘Looks like a postcard,’ said Cassandra, as she parked just beyond the cottage.

‘It is, now,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve painted it for Guy, and one of the best sellers in his gallery is the view from the front room window. I had a picture exactly like that on my bedroom wall when I was a child, and I just keep replicating it.’

‘Couldn’t you just do prints of it?’ said Cassandra curiously. ‘Seems an awful lot of work.’

Libby shook her head. ‘No. Guy’s customers like original work. I’ve now become known as a “local artist” and the prices have gone up exponentially.’

‘Good for you.’ Cassandra got out and locked the car. ‘Come on. I want to see what your friend Fran has to say about Mike.’

‘She doesn’t know him,’ said Libby, leading the way across the road.

‘Does she have to? I’m relying on her psychic power!’

Chapter Ten

‘No, Cass, you can’t!’ Libby turned on her cousin, elbows planted firmly on her hips.

‘Why not?’ Cassandra raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s what she does, isn’t it?’

‘No, it isn’t. Fran gets pictures in her head which her children used to call “Mother’s Moments”. That’s all. And when anyone’s tried to harness it, it tends not to work.’

‘It used to. You told me she was employed by Goodall and Smythe to check out houses for nervous buyers. And she’s been consulted by the police.’

‘But she always had something to relate to. She’s not even met Mike, or even seen a picture of him.’

‘That’s easy. We’ll call up his website.’ Cassandra strode past Libby and knocked on the blue door.

Fran peered out of the front window looking surprised. ‘It’s open. You know it’s always open.’

‘Not me,’ said Libby, making a face. She reached past Cassandra and opened the door.

Cassandra, looking chastened, stepped back. ‘Sorry. Can never seem to forget I was a headmistress.’

‘No, I’d noticed,’ said Libby. ‘It’s all right, in you go.’

Fran was sitting in the window seat.

‘So what did you want to ask me, Cassandra?’

Cassandra gaped and Libby hid a grin. ‘About Mike Farthing,’ she said. ‘She suggested you could look at his photograph on his website.’

Cassandra glowered and Fran laughed.

‘Come on, then,’ she said, and led them to the table on the other side of the room where her laptop stood, already open.

‘What were you doing?’ asked Libby, as a picture sprang up on the screen.

‘Looking up Dellington.’ Fran typed “Mike Farthing” into the search engine.

‘Farthing’s Plants?’

ʻThat’s it.’ Cassandra bent over Fran’s shoulder. ‘And that’s him.’

‘Hmm. Looks nice,’ said Fran.

‘He is.’ Cassandra cleared her throat and looked the other way.

‘But,’ said Libby, ‘he appears to be being questioned by the police.’

‘If he’s a member of the ukulele group that’s natural. They’ll all be questioned.’

‘Yes, but they already have been, on Wednesday,’ said Cassandra. ‘And he sounded–’

‘Bothered,’ suggested Libby.

Fran peered at the screen. ‘Well, nothing’s coming to mind,’ she said apologetically. ‘But it rarely does.’

Cassandra sighed and sat down abruptly on the arm of Fran’s sofa. ‘I’m behaving like a teenager, and I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Fran stood up and patted her on the shoulder. ‘This sort of thing coming on – ah – later in life, as it were, can be pretty hard. Libby and I have both had to deal with it.’

‘But you’re both younger than I am. I haven’t had any sort of relationship with a man since my husband died.’

‘Not even a flutter of interest?’ asked Libby.

‘No. I tried. I even went out with a couple of people a year or so after Colin died, but I just felt uncomfortable, and there was no … um …’

‘Physical attraction,’ supplied Libby. ‘Right, and you’ve got to have that.’

‘What, even at my age?’ Cassandra laughed shakily. ‘That’s why I feel so foolish.’

‘Because you do feel that for Mike,’ said Fran shrewdly.

‘And I’d take a bet that he feels the same for you,’ said Libby. ‘So he’d better not be guilty of something. Come on, we’re going to have a very late lunch.’

‘But how can I feel like this at my age?’ Cassandra returned to the subject as they walked along Harbour Street towards The Sloop. ‘And how could he? Look at me. I’ve got grey hair –’

‘So has he,’ put in Libby.

‘And I’m not exactly glamorous, am I?’

‘I don’t think Mike would go for glamorous,’ said Libby.

‘Stop analysing,’ said Fran. ‘I know it’s difficult – I did the same thing when I met Guy.’

‘And Ian,’ said Libby.

‘Your policeman friend?’

‘The same. He was very angry the first time Fran met him, but the next time, when he asked for her help, well, that was different.’

‘I nearly made the biggest mistake of my life,’ said Fran.

‘But Ian is – was – gorgeous.’ Libby said.

‘
Is
gorgeous,’ said Fran, opening the door of The Sloop. ‘And I know you’ve always secretly fancied him.’

‘Does Ben know?’ asked Cassandra, looking horrified.

‘Oh, I expect so,’ said Libby. ‘But he also knows I’d never do anything about it.’

Settled at a table in the window overlooking the tiny harbour, Fran returned to the subject of the murder.

‘Now think. Is there any reason you can think of that the police would be interested in Mike?’

‘We saw him this morning and asked him some questions,’ said Libby.

‘
You
asked him questions,’ corrected Cassandra.

‘And the only thing he said was that he’d helped with his garden. And with Ron Stewart’s. Oh – and Vernon lived in the first of those new Georgian houses and Ron Stewart lives in the second one, that we saw yesterday. I told you that on the phone.’

‘So they’re all friends?’

Libby looked at Cassandra. ‘I didn’t get that impression, did you?’

‘You said Mike said Vernon and Stewart were friends and shared lifts. And that they usually went for a drink after rehearsals.’

‘Meetings, he said they were. Held in a back room at The Poacher. Vernon would have been able to walk there. I expect he meant shared lifts to Steeple Martin.’

‘Only not last Tuesday,’ said Fran, frowning.

‘Is that significant?’ asked Cassandra.

‘Well, it could be, if it’s a break from the norm.’

‘But that’s nothing to do with Mike.’

‘No. It’s plants, though.’

Libby and Cassandra looked at each other.

‘Eh?’

‘What?’

Fran looked up. ‘Sorry. It just popped in. Plants.’

‘Well, yes, that’s what Mike is – a plantsman.’

‘Yes.’ Fran sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t suppose that’s got anything to do with it.’

‘No.’ Cassandra was frowning at her. ‘I don’t understand how it works.’

‘Fran’s moments?’ said Libby. ‘There’s nothing to understand. I tried to explain – things just pop into Fran’s head as though she’s always known them. And sometimes she’s had quite unpleasant experiences.’

‘Which I do not want to experience again, I can assure you,’ said Fran. ‘Which is why I try and suppress it these days.’

‘But if it’s been so helpful –?’

‘It isn’t always, and it can be very uncomfortable.’ Fran wriggled in her chair. ‘I promise, if anything does happen to strike me, I’ll let you know.’

Cassandra sat back, obviously dissatisfied, and Libby kicked her under the table.

Their ham sandwiches arrived, garnished with crisps, which Cassandra poked at distastefully. Libby sighed.

‘Cass, if you’re going to be difficult, we’ll go home now.’

‘What?’ Cassandra looked up, surprised.

‘You’re not happy with Fran or the sandwiches, and I’m getting cross with you.’

Fran laughed. ‘And you’re never difficult, are you, Lib? Leave her alone. She’s suffering from the pangs of – well, something – for the first time in years, and under not particularly nice circumstances.’

Cassandra reached for Libby’s hand. ‘No, you’re right, Lib, I am being difficult.’ She turned to Fran. ‘Sorry, Fran.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Fran. ‘Eat your crisps.’

When they’d finished lunch, Fran took them to see Guy in his gallery, where Cassandra was shown some of Libby’s pictures, including one of the back of Dragon Island, the lump of rock that sat in the middle of Nethergate Bay, with Harbour Street, Victoria Place, and Cliff Terrace showing faintly in the background.

‘I like that one,’ she said. ‘Sort of vaguely impressionistic.’

‘Sheer laziness, I expect,’ said Guy with a grin. ‘She’s supposed to make sure I’ve got a selection, but she falls behind rather.’

‘I’m just a carthorse,’ grumbled Libby.

‘Workhorse,’ said Fran, ‘and you’re not. You hardly do any until Guy’s sold out.’

‘By the way,’ said Guy, ‘that old boy you were talking about came back while you were out.’

‘Bob Alton?’ said Fran. ‘You remember, Lib, I told you earlier. What did he want?’

‘You, actually,’ said Guy. ‘I asked if I could give you a message, but he said no, he’d come back another time.’

Fran and Libby looked at one another.

‘We’ll Google him,’ said Libby.’

‘Or ask Mike,’ said Cassandra.

‘But we can’t – at least, not yet. I think you ought to get in touch with the organiser of the group,’ said Fran. ‘You can easily do so to see what’s happening about the concert.’

‘Yes, but they had a meeting last night,’ demurred Libby. ‘I was there.’

‘But he might have heard from people who weren’t there,’ said Fran. ‘It’s a legitimate question. And you can always give the impression you’re asking on behalf of Andrew.’

‘Andrew?’ said Guy. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

‘Not Andrew Wylie, Andrew McColl.’ Libby turned to Fran. ‘See there’s another one who thought it was our Andrew.’

‘That would be a good idea, though, Lib,’ said Cassandra.

‘Yes, but Dr Robinson isn’t going to know why one of his members wanted to speak to Fran, is he?’

‘No, that’s true,’ said Fran. ‘Oh, well, I don’t suppose it’s important.’

‘The fact that he’s been in twice to see you?’ said Libby. ‘I would suspect
he
thinks it’s important.’

‘He’ll come back, then, won’t he?’ said Fran. ‘And if I’m at home, Guy can call me.’

‘Suppose so,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, Cass and I had better be getting back. I’ve got to cook before rehearsal tonight. I was going to put something in the slow cooker earlier, and I forgot.’

‘You’re hopeless,’ said Fran. ‘Have you got anything in?’

‘Oh, loads,’ said Libby. ‘We won’t starve.’

‘And I’ll take you all to dinner tomorrow at Harry’s,’ said Cassandra.

‘And we all have to go to Hetty’s for lunch on Sunday,’ said Libby. ‘No getting out of that.’

Cassandra checked her phone all the way home, despite Libby’s nervousness.

‘Leave it, Cass. You’d hear it if it rang. Keep your eyes on the road.’

Cassandra’s mouth was set in a thin line as she nodded. Libby sighed.

‘Drop me off when you park,’ said Libby. ‘I’m going to pop into the eight-til-late on the way home. Dinner at six thirty all right? It has to be early on rehearsal nights.’

‘Fine,’ said Cassandra, as she drew in to a parking space on the opposite of the road from The Pink Geranium. ‘Do you think I should risk ringing again?’

Libby considered. ‘I think that would be OK, actually. After all, he might have thought it would be pushy to ring you back.’ She didn’t really think this, but Cassandra looked in need of reassurance.

‘Right.’ Cassandra got out of the car. ‘I’ll do it as soon as I get indoors. And I’ll see you at half past six.’

Libby crossed the road to Ali and Ahmed’s eight-til-late shop hoping they had some vegetables as Joe and Nella’s farm shop was closed. A bag of stir-fry mushrooms and beansprouts was all that seemed to be on offer, so she bought those and a small French stick, before rushing into Bob the butcher’s shop just as he was beginning to close up, and asking for chicken.

‘Why didn’t you buy it this morning?’ he asked, reluctantly going into the back of the shop.

‘I didn’t think of it then, and I’ve just told everyone I’ve got loads at home.’

‘Which you haven’t,’ said Bob, coming back with some chicken thighs. ‘Here – better flavour than breasts. Want some of my Chinese spice to go with them?’

‘Oh, yes, you’re a lifesaver, Bob. See you later?’

‘Yes, eight forty-five on the dot, Madam Director.’ Bob handed over the package and took Libby’s money.

As Libby let herself into number seventeen the phone was ringing.

‘Libby!’ said Cassandra’s breathless voice. ‘Mike rang. You’ll never believe what happened.’

‘Calm down,’ said Libby, sitting down on the stairs. ‘I thought you were going to ring him?’

‘I did, and there was no reply. Then after I’d hung up, or whatever you do these days, he rang back. Said he’d been busy in the glasshouses.’

‘Well, that would be the normal state of affairs, I suppose.’

‘No, listen! He had to be in there because the police had spent all day searching them. The place is a mess.’

‘Searching the greenhouses? What on earth for?’

‘Marijuana.’