Murder in Steeple Martin (16 page)

‘What chap?’

‘Quite good-looking, about our age. Grumpy.’

‘Oh, Stephen.’ Libby handed Fran her glass. ‘He’s another old friend imported to help us with the play. He’s set designer come stage manager, and in charge of construction. What did you dredge up about him?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Fran stared in to the fire. ‘He seemed very angry.’

‘He – ah – fancies me,’ said Libby, ‘at least, he thinks he does. Very jealous of Peter, Harry and Ben.’

‘Well, I can see why he’d be jealous of Ben, but Peter and Harry?’

‘Because I see a lot of them, I think. And he doesn’t live here, which makes him feel like an outsider.’

Fran nodded. ‘I’ll see if anything else comes to mind.’

But nothing came up. They sat and talked for another half-an-hour before Fran said she was tired and went up to bed. Libby fed Sidney and shut him in the conservatory in case he decided to join his new friend upstairs, then turned off the lights and went up herself.

It was all very well, she thought, poking about in someone’s brain to find the answers to unanswerable questions, but it looked as though there were some things that might be best left alone. David and Peter, for instance. Libby had only vaguely been conscious of the fact that they were related. Of course, she knew, if she thought about it, but David and Susan never socialised with Ben, Peter or Harry. Millicent she’d only met recently, so she had no idea whether she was on friendly terms with her niece and nephew-in-law. It would make sense if she were, as she and Susan must have been brought up almost as sisters. And what did it matter anyway? David and Susan had nothing to do with the theatre. Libby was still trying to remember whether they had any children when sleep rolled over her like a mist, shrouding her until morning.

Chapter Twenty

A
NOTE PROPPED UP
against the kettle informed Libby that Fran had woken early, found the tea-towel with the rather twee map of the village and gone exploring. ‘Fed Sidney,’ it said, ‘hope you don’t mind.’

Sidney naturally lied winsomely about this, but Libby refused to give in and took her tea into the sitting room, where she sat by the window wondering how long Fran would be and what exactly she was exploring. Eventually she saw her coming up Allhallow’s Lane carrying an armful of newspapers.

‘I didn’t know which ones you took,’ said Fran, dumping them all on the coffee table.

‘I don’t,’ said Libby, ‘but if I did, I’d probably buy those.’

‘Really? Oh, I am sorry. I only read the arts and review sections myself, but most people I know seem to have at least two on Saturday and two on Sunday and read through them during the week.’

‘I’d never have time,’ said Libby. ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Tea, please,’ said Fran, following her into the kitchen.

‘I get my news from the radio and television. I can’t be bothered with all the in-depth editorial comment. Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound churlish.’

‘You didn’t. I got the local paper, too.’

Libby turned round from the Rayburn. ‘Oh. Did it – I mean, I never thought –’

‘Yes, there’s a bit in there, but it must have been really close to their deadline, so it’s more or less stop-press.’ Fran took the mug Libby held out and went back into the sitting room. ‘Look, there.’ She held out the paper.

A small paragraph reported the finding of Paula’s body, adding that the police were treating the death as “suspicious”.

‘I’ll say,’ said Libby.

‘Leave it, Libby,’ said Fran, ‘you’ve got enough to think about.’

Libby nodded morosely. ‘You’re not kidding.’

They sipped tea in silence for a few moments.

‘Tell you what I’d like to do,’ said Fran. ‘I’d like to go and see the bridge. If you tell me where it is, I could go while you’re rehearsing this afternoon.’

‘We could go this morning, then I could come with you.’

‘No, it’ll give me something to do later on.’

‘OK,’ said Libby doubtfully, ‘if you’re sure.’

‘Sure. And I could look at the huts, too, couldn’t I? How far did you say it was?’

‘Quicker from the top of the lane here than the way Pete took me,’ said Libby, ‘but I’m not absolutely certain I could find them going that way.’

‘I’ll ask Ben to show me. He won’t be at rehearsal today, will he?’

‘No,’ said Libby, after trying to find a reason for Ben to be chained to the theatre all afternoon.

‘Good,’ said Fran, getting to her feet. ‘Oh, here’s the tea-towel.’

‘Where did you get to?’ asked Libby, spreading it out on top of the papers.

‘All the way down that way,’ Fran pointed, ‘past the restaurant, then back on the other side of the High Street and up to there.’

‘That’s Lendle Lane,’ said Libby. ‘Where Paula was killed.’

‘Is it? I thought that was where she lived.’

‘She was killed outside her house.’

‘How do you know?’

Libby looked at Fran in surprise. ‘What do you mean, how do I know? Her car was outside her house and she was inside her car.’

Fran stared back. ‘So how do you know she was killed there?’

Libby gaped. ‘Good God. I never thought of that.’

‘Sorry. I was being difficult again, wasn’t I?’

‘No, of course you weren’t.’ Libby slid sideways into a chair. ‘It’s so obvious, isn’t it? Nobody said she died there, I just assumed it.’

‘I expect the police thought of it, though,’ said Fran, ‘and they’ll have gone over it with a toothcomb.’

‘I suppose it doesn’t make a lot of difference where – oh! hang on – could she have been killed outside the car? Or are we saying she was killed
in
the car and then the car was moved?’

Fran shook her head. ‘No idea. I didn’t see the car and I didn’t see any obvious police presence, either. No tape or anything like that.’

‘Well, she lived round the bend in the lane, so unless you went down it …’

‘No, I turned round there and came back.’

‘And you didn’t feel anything while you were up there?’

‘No, Libby, I didn’t!’ Fran sighed and sat down on the arm of the other armchair. ‘Don’t keep asking me. If anything comes up, I’ll tell you.’

‘Sorry.’ Libby stood up. ‘Breakfast. Do you want to wait while I get dressed, or shall we have it now?’

‘Can’t I do it?’ asked Fran. ‘I only have toast and cereal anyway.’

‘Oh, good, me too,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go and get dressed then.’

When she came downstairs, she found Fran speaking on her mobile phone.

‘Ben,’ she said, as she switched it off. ‘He’s coming to pick me up later.’

‘Oh?’ Libby quelled the urgent desire to scream and drum her heels.

‘To show me the sights,’ grinned Fran. ‘The huts and the bridge. Then he said we could meet you in the pub for lunch.’

‘My whole social life revolves around food and drink,’ sighed Libby, appeased.

‘Doesn’t everybody’s?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know any more. I either seem to be in Harry’s caff or the pub.’

‘Or the theatre. Or the police station.’

‘Gee, thanks. What a comfort you are.’

Libby spent the morning at the theatre with props and one of the carpenters. Happily covered in paint and glue, she was sipping a mug of enamel-scouring tea in the scenery dock when Ben stuck his head round a flat.

‘I thought you were meeting us for lunch?’ he said, his glance taking in her less than sartorially elegant appearance.

‘What time is it?’ Libby squinted at her watch.

‘One-thirty. Your rehearsal starts at two.’

‘Oh, bugger.’ Libby put down her mug. ‘Bit late now, then.’

‘Never mind. I’ll bring you a sandwich,’ said Ben, and disappeared.

Torn between gratification that he had come seeking her out and was attending to her needs, and jealousy because he’d spent the morning and lunchtime with Fran, Libby went home to have a wash and change out of her borrowed overalls. When she got back, she was relieved to see the lights spilling from the front doors and even more relieved when she went in and heard familiar voices declaiming from inside the auditorium. Harry appeared on the stairs to the lighting box.

‘Hallo, dearheart. You’re late.’

‘Yes. I take it Peter’s running the rehearsal?’

Harry descended the stairs, sinuous in tight leather trousers. ‘Reluctantly, dear, reluctantly.’

‘Oh, I hate this,’ Libby burst out, flinging her cape off and catching Harry in the eye.

‘Oi! Less of it.’ He blinked and rubbed a delicate finger over the injured place. ‘I hate it, too, but I don’t get violent.’

‘Sorry.’ Libby peered at the reddened eye. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

‘I know, dear.’ Harry patted her arm. ‘You’re overwrought. Here – have a fag and calm down, then you can go in there and start throwing your weight about.’

She stood unseen at the back, looking down towards the stage, where a distinctly lacklustre performance was taking place. Peter, sunk down in the middle of the third row, was making no attempt to stop the proceedings, and as far as Libby could see was paying no attention at all to what was happening in front of him. She waited until the action had ground to a halt without any prompting from Peter and then walked forward.

‘Right,’ she said, going to the front of the stage and surveying the surprised faces, ‘I see the general malaise has overtaken everyone.’

‘Libby –’ Peter’s flustered voice came from behind her.

‘It’s all right, Pete. I’m back. I’ll take over now.’ She didn’t turn her head. ‘Now – will you go back to the beginning of that scene, please and put some life into it.’ She looked round the set.

An hour later, she conceded that there was some improvement and the new Lizzie had done very well.

‘Are we still going up on Tuesday, Libby?’ called a voice from the back when she’d finished giving her notes. She looked up in feigned surprise.

‘Of course. Why shouldn’t we?’

There was a muttering round the stage like the whisper of wind through wheat.

‘We just thought –’

‘Well, don’t think. We’ve got a terrific theatre – a good play and some good publicity. We’re going ahead despite any petty attempts to stop us – if that’s what they are, and, as I said, we owe it to Paula.’ Not that I quite see how, she thought, but it struck the right note.

There was a general murmur of approval and people began to disperse.

The promised sandwich had turned up after the rehearsal had started, handed over by Peter, but of Ben there had been no further sign. Libby had found her mind wandering from what was happening onstage to what could be happening between Fran and Ben, despite Fran’s assurances that there was nothing between them.

‘Pleased? Not pleased?’ asked Peter, when the auditorium was empty. ‘Or were you merely letting them off lightly before a rigorous workout tomorrow?’

‘Something like that,’ she said, climbing on to the stage.

‘As long as that’s all it is,’ said Peter, following her behind the set.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You mustn’t let this Paula business get in the way.’

‘This Paula business, as you so delicately put it, is the reason we’re rehearsing all over the weekend. And she was murdered, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘All right, all right, I know. I just don’t want you to get mixed up in it.’

‘How could I do that?’ Libby turned to face him indignantly.

‘You’re still trying to find out who did it,’ said Peter bluntly.

Libby felt herself redden. ‘I don’t want to do that. You know perfectly well all I want to do is find out about the accidents. Just so they won’t happen again.’

‘They won’t.’ Peter checked the back door and walked out on to the stage. ‘No more accidents.’

Libby followed him back into the auditorium. ‘So you’re not too pleased Fran’s here after all?’

‘I don’t think she’ll find anything out. Just don’t take too much notice of what she says. She might make something up just to please you.’

‘She wouldn’t!’ gasped Libby.

‘Ask yourself why she’s really here, Lib,’ said Peter, ushering her out into the foyer.

‘She wanted a break? She wanted to help me?’

‘And Ben?’

Libby went cold. ‘She sees him through work.’

‘But not on his home turf. And he asked her in the first place, didn’t he?’

‘She said there was nothing between them.’

‘Of course she did. Wouldn’t you have done?’

Libby’s heart sank. Thought of the admissions Fran had got out of her. ‘I like her,’ she said.

‘She’s very likeable,’ agreed Peter.

Libby turned to lock the doors. ‘You don’t like her.’

‘It’s not a matter of whether I like her or not,’ said Peter, tucking his arm through Libby’s as they began to walk down the drive. ‘I don’t trust her.’

This was not going well, thought Libby miserably. Pete was one of her oldest and most loved friends, and she really wanted him to like Fran.

‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ Peter was saying, ‘just because she’s turned up in this situation, where we don’t need outsiders.’

‘Ben invited her, not me,’ said Libby.

‘I just said that, didn’t I? But you invited her to stay. I bet she leapt at the opportunity.’

‘Don’t be so rotten.’ Libby pulled her arm away. ‘Why don’t you want her here? Why are you so bothered about people looking into the accidents?’

‘I’m not.’ Peter shrugged. ‘I just don’t want the waters muddied.’

‘Peter.’ Libby stopped dead, forcing him to turn and face her. ‘You’ve been shilly-shallying about all this for the last week. Certainly since last Monday. In fact,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘since your mum paid us a visit. That was when you said there was an atmosphere. What’s been going on that I don’t know about?’

Peter stared at her for a long moment, then turned and began to walk on down the drive.

‘Pete!’ Libby said. ‘Answer me.’

He stopped and sighed. ‘Nothing’s going on. Sorry. I just don’t like interference in family affairs.’

‘In that case, why on earth did you write
The Hop Pickers
? You can’t put your family’s history and peccadilloes on show and then decide you don’t like the consequences.’

‘I didn’t know all of the history and peccadilloes, obviously.’ Peter was frowning.

‘What do you mean by that? What do you know now that you didn’t know a fortnight ago?’

‘Nothing you don’t,’ he said, evasively.

‘Oh, yes? And, while we’re on the subject, why don’t you like interference in family affairs by anyone else when you’re perfectly happy about me?’

He glanced at her sideways, but said nothing.

‘Oh, of course. I haven’t been told everything, have I? By a long chalk.’ Libby stuffed her hands in the pockets of her skirt underneath her cape and strode ahead of him down the drive. He caught her up at the bottom, just as she was about to turn left towards Allhallow’s Lane.

‘Lib, don’t be like this.’ He pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being a pig. But honestly, I can’t get my head round all this. I hoped the play would take our minds off things, but now I’m not sure. I just can’t help worrying about Harry, and me, and my mum.’

Libby pulled back and looked up into his face. ‘As suspects, you mean?’

He nodded. ‘And James most of all.’

‘Not Ben?’

‘I don’t think the police are worried about Ben.’

‘But your mum?’ Libby was horrified. ‘They can’t suspect her, surely?’

‘Yes, they can. They suspect her of the accidents, so they suspect her of the murder.’

Libby stared at him. ‘And did she? Did she do them?’

‘I don’t know.’ Peter shook his head. ‘I can’t see it, can you? I know she’s odd, but doing all those things?’

‘Ben and I said we couldn’t see her up a ladder cutting steel wire. Or sawing through the bridge, come to that.’

Pete sighed. ‘No. But I’d rather not know, somehow.’ He smiled weakly at her. ‘Go on. Go and attend to your guest. You’re coming in to the caff, tonight, aren’t you? I’ll see you then.’

‘And be polite to Fran,’ warned Libby.