Murder in the Green (35 page)

She plunged onwards.

Chapter Thirty-four

The woods weren’t as thick as she first thought. After five minutes she came out to a patch of lawn surrounded by ornamental shrubs and roses. A path appeared to run from the other side behind a hedge of what looked like yew, so she set off across the grass towards it. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the faint sounds of a lawnmower, and it occurred to her to wonder what she would do, or say, if confronted by one of Frensham Barn’s shadowy gardeners. So far, she’d given the existence of these creatures no thought at all. Barry Phillips had said they existed, so they did, but if so, how could Bill Frensham possibly have used the shed as a facility for anything?

As the reality of this thought hit her, her steps slowed. She’d been stupid. Just because Frensham hadn’t contacted the police after the burglary, it didn’t mean there was anything suspicious about the place. After all, Phillips had told her that he’d told their estates department. It could all be proved, and was presumably above board, so there wouldn’t be anything to find and Ian would be furious with her if she’d sent him on a wild goose chase.

But, suddenly, there it was, in front of her. A white-painted, brick-built building with two doors, one at each end. The one long window between the doors appeared to be covered from the inside, but that was nothing so unusual. Libby went slowly forward.

The ground around the building was trampled, particularly round the door nearest to Libby. When she approached, she realised that the padlock was hanging loose, and when she tried the door, very gingerly, it swung obediently open. Her heart gave a huge thump and she stepped back hurriedly.

But all that met her eyes was a range of clean, but obviously used, tools hung neatly on the walls, hoses, flowerpots and strimmers ranged on the floor, and a large space in the middle, presumably where the lawnmower she’d heard earlier normally sat. Disappointed but relieved at the same time, she stepped back and pushed the door closed. And then realised that the gardeners’ store only took up about a third of the building.

The other door was padlocked. Libby stood on tiptoe and tried to see in the window, but it was too well covered. Frustrated, she walked round to the back of the building. Here there was another covered window, but nothing else. She stood looking at it, listening to the sound of the lawnmower, which sounded nearer now. Which meant it was time to get out of the way fairly quickly. In fact, she thought, as she heard voices approaching, even quicker.

But she was trapped. The voices were coming from the other side of the building, so they were approaching from the same way as Libby herself had. How embarrassing. She stood against the wall of the building and tried to think.

‘She’s got to be here somewhere,’ said the first voice, and Libby nearly fainted with fright. ‘Are you sure that was her car?’

‘Yes, certain. You don’t see many of them around these days. There couldn’t be two like it.’ Diggory’s voice was harsh. ‘Nosy fucking cow. I knew she was trouble.’

‘She doesn’t know anything. She can’t know anything.’

‘But she’s sicked the bloody cops onto us. You heard that Trisha girl telling Phillips.’

‘Then they won’t find anything. Come on, get that door open.’

Libby heard the sounds of a door being opened.

‘They’ve already been turning over your bleeding offices. They know all right.’ Diggory’s voice faded as he went inside the building.

‘Knowing and proving are two different things. I can manage to unload it all on Bill Frensham. Thank God he’s dead.’ And Elizabeth Martin’s voice faded inside after Diggory’s.

Libby’s heart was beating so hard she thought she might faint. Could she get back round the building and back to her car without being seen? She would have to try, she thought, and began to make her way as silently as possible back to the front of the building on the far side to where she guessed Martin and Diggory had gone in. Very slowly, resisting the temptation to run straight across the lawn, she edged round, clinging to the shrubs. They knew she was here somewhere, although not exactly where, but at any minute they might come looking for her. At the moment, though, they were too busy clearing whatever was incriminating in the gardeners’ shed.

As she came out into the car park she punched in Ian’s number again.

‘Now what?’ he said. Libby told him.

‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘Five minutes.’

‘They’ll run if they hear a car,’ said Libby, ‘and I’m right beside their car now – or rather Diggory’s van. And they know I’m here. They’ve seen my car.’

‘Hide, then, for fuck’s sake,’ said Ian. ‘Just stay there.’

Sweating and shaking, Libby looked round for somewhere to hide. There wasn’t anywhere, unless she went round to the back of the barn, which meant traversing the wide open space of the car park. She began to pray that the gardeners would turn up. Perhaps they would save her. But then it struck her, as she slid to the ground beside Romeo and rested her head on her knees, the gardeners must know all about the contents of the other side of the shed. Unless they did, Frensham, Martin and Diggory, and presumably at one time, Lethbridge and Wilhelmina too, would never have been able to use the place. So who were the gardeners?

She was about to find out.

A shadow fell across her. She squinted up against the sun, and saw a large figure dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.

‘Are you all right?’ it said.

Libby cleared a dry throat and began to struggle to her feet. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she managed.

‘I know you,’ said the person when she finally stood upright. ‘You’re that woman.’

Libby looked at him. His round face was open, the narrow eyes friendly. Very little taller than she was herself, he held a pair of shears in one hand and a pair of gardening gloves in the other.

‘That woman,’ he continued. ‘You know Mrs Gemma.’

‘Yes,’ said Libby, relief flooding through her. ‘Have we met?’

Gemma taught in the special needs department of a local school, where she herself had visited.

‘You came and showed us painting,’ said the young man. ‘Long time ago.’

‘That’s right,’ said Libby, overcome with affection for this unlikely ally. She tucked her arm in his. ‘And you work here now?’

He nodded vigorously. ‘Not as good as painting,’ he said.

‘But very good. Have you been cutting the grass?’

He nodded again. ‘Over there.’ He pointed away from the woods.

‘Do you work on your own?’

‘Sometimes Mr Best comes to help.’ He smiled at her. ‘Mr Best’s very good.’

Libby heard an engine and turned towards the drive as the first of two police cars drove up. The young man stiffened beside her.

‘It’s all right,’ she said to him, patting his arm. ‘They’re friends of mine. They’ve come to catch some bad people.’ She paused. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Samuel,’ he said. ‘I live with Mr Best.’

Ian was approaching them.

‘This is Samuel, Ian. Samuel, this is my friend Ian. He’s going to catch some bad people.’ She turned to Ian. ‘Through those woods and out the other side, over the lawn and behind the hedge. But you’ll be seen.’

‘No we won’t.’ Ian grinned at her. ‘Well done, Libby, even if you were a bit stupid to come out here on your own.’

‘I didn’t know this was going to happen,’ said Libby indignantly, and watched as Ian and his team disappeared silently into the woods.

‘I’m going to tell Mr Best,’ said Samuel suddenly. ‘It’s his garden.’

‘All right, Samuel,’ said Libby. ‘Where is he? Can I give you a lift?’

Samuel shook his head, looking worried. ‘I must walk. Down there.’ He pointed.

‘All right, then.’ Libby smiled at him. ‘I hope I see you again.’

He nodded, gave her a brief hug and set off across the drive and vanished into a shrubbery. Libby leant against Romeo staring after him. Gemma taught many young people like Samuel, and strangely, his straightforward and obvious desire to be friends with her had wiped away the fear she had felt earlier. If there were nice, kind people like Samuel in the world, it couldn’t all be bad, could it?

And then, for no particular reason that she could see, she thought of Monica and her children. Had there been a trace of something in the faces of those children in the photograph? Something – her mind made the connection – a little like Samuel? She frowned down at the ground, thinking furiously. But if both children were a little bit like Samuel, what did it matter?

She supposed she ought to wait for Ian to come back with his prize, but she had no intention of facing either Elizabeth Martin or Richard Diggory, and if Ian found out enough to charge them with Frensham’s murder, all well and good, although she didn’t think he would. She wondered if he had talked to Monica about the letter yet, and suddenly decided to go and find out. She had to know who sent that letter. That would be the killer.

She got into the car and turned on the engine. Of course, maybe it was Martin who’d sent it. Not Diggory – Frensham had been talking to him on May Day morning, and there was still the mystery of the fake Lethbridge. She set off down the drive and turned towards Steeple Cross.

Elizabeth Martin. Still carrying a torch for Bill Frensham, and now apparently involved in whatever Frensham and Diggory had going on under the cover of Frensham Supplies. Drugs, presumably, although didn’t Harry say Diggory had hinted at porn?

Who else could have sent the letter? Anyone, she supposed. Barry Phillips, Wilhelmina, even Monica. Or someone neither she nor the police were aware of. It could be anyone in the whole world. She screwed up her face. Address book – that would be a good starting point. Unless Ian had already stolen a march on her.

And what was it about? Hadn’t she thought about blackmail already? But that was thinking that Lethbridge was blackmailing Frensham – wasn’t it? By this time her head was throbbing and once more her shirt was sticking to her back. Her mobile trilled. Guessing it was Ian, she virtuously refused to answer it as she was driving.

She began to go through the ramifications of relationships. First of all, Monica and Bill Frensham. Then Monica and John Lethbridge. At some point in the past, it could have been Diggory and Monica. Then there was Bill Frensham, who had an affair with Elizabeth Martin, who still loved him, apparently, and Wilhelmina, who had also had an affair with Diggory. Bloody hell, thought Libby. Finally, there was poor old Barry Phillips, who sat on the sidelines and wasn’t involved with anything, except that he was in love with Elizabeth Martin, which did give him a sort of motive.

She turned off the A2 and began to drive across country towards Steeple Cross. Had she missed anyone out? Of course, there was the Mannan Night crowd, and the Goat’s Head Morris, all of whom could have the means to blackmail anyone involved with their unsavoury goings-on, but Bill Frensham’s death had occurred two months before this year’s Mannan Night, and, if there had been a reason to blackmail him, surely it would have been just after last year’s festivities.

Her phone went again, and once again, she ignored it. She was now plunging deep into the narrow lanes that led between some of the few hop gardens that remained in this part of Kent. Praying that she wouldn’t meet another vehicle coming the other way, she slowed right down and wondered what she was going to say to Monica Frensham. “The police have just caught your rival in love ?” No, because she wasn’t really a rival, was she? Perhaps “Did you know your husband received a letter the morning he was killed and do you know what was in it?” She sighed. Too bald, and anyway, Ian had probably already asked the same question.

Thankfully, she turned into the road leading down to Steeple Cross and the Frensham House. She was going to have to play it by ear.

Chapter Thirty-five

‘Don’t worry, I already know,’ were Monica’s first words as she opened the door. Libby gaped.

‘About Elizabeth Martin and Richard Diggory,’ she continued. ‘Your Inspector called me. He’d an appointment to see me, but he had to cancel, and as the barn is technically my property now, he told me why.’ She shook her head and stood back for Libby to enter. ‘I knew there was some reason that woman didn’t want me looking into the business.’

‘It certainly seems that way,’ said Libby, following into the sitting room.

‘It was kind of you to come and tell me, though,’ said Monica. Libby was grateful she didn’t ask any questions. ‘You look very hot, though. Can I get you a cold drink? Or tea?’

‘Could I have a glass of water?’ asked Libby. ‘And perhaps tea after that? I’ve had a bit of a morning.’

Monica smiled. ‘Of course. Why don’t you come through to the kitchen?’

The kitchen was much as Libby would have expected, very sleek, very modern, very clean. Monica took a filter jug from the huge American-style fridge and poured a glass of water. Libby perched on a stool by a breakfast bar to drink it.

‘Did Inspector Connell tell you what he found in the shed?’

‘Oh, was it a shed? He just said they’d arrested the two of them in possession of something at Frensham Barn.’

‘Yes, it was the gardeners’ shed in the grounds. But didn’t he say what he found?’

Monica shrugged, but Libby thought she saw something flicker in her eyes. ‘No.’