Murder in the Dark - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series) (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

‘What?’ Libby almost shouted in shocked disbelief. Two drinkers in the other bar looked over curiously.

‘“My wife Evelyn” it says.’ Edward looked up.

‘But –’ Libby struggled to get her thoughts in order. ‘It says in the church that Rebecca was the wife. And that note in the parish records.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Marilyn, looking from one to the other.

‘Do you know anything about Sir Godfrey Wyghtham at all?’ asked Libby.

‘Only that he was an ancestor who was supposed to have left some treasure at the house. Neither Rachel nor Olive explained why, although they went into great detail about how they’d traced their line back to him.’

‘A mistress?’ Libby turned to Edward.

‘Addressed as “my wife”?’ Edward shook his head. ‘Let me see if I can decipher any more of this.’ He took a notebook and pencil out of his jacket pocket and bent over the document.

Libby looked at Marilyn. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know what you’ve found out about this man so far,’ said Marilyn. ‘Or how – er – Edward got involved.’

Libby explained the circumstances of Edward’s arrival, and all the background they had on Roland, Ramani and the Wyghthams.

‘We did find a cross and a gimmel ring hidden in the attic, and Edward said they might be worth a bit, but they wouldn’t be worth enough to murder for.’

Marilyn nodded. ‘I did look in the attics, but to be honest, I was scared of falling through the floor.’

‘Lewis said it was in a state up there when he and his team went in.’

‘That’s the television person, isn’t it?’ Marilyn looked interested.

‘Yes. He’s the person who got me involved in the first place, except for Adam being there when the first body was found.’

‘Is he a friend of yours?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. And Adam works for him at his house – or garden, I should say.’

‘I think I know what this is.’ Edward looked up, leant back in his chair and took a healthy swig of beer. ‘It’s part of a letter. I don’t know who to or when it was written, but it’s talking about money and the house. It’s just conceivable that it could be construed as proof that there was money hidden in the house, but it isn’t very clear. I’d like Andrew to see it.’

‘Professor Andrew Wylie. He’s an Emeritus Professor of History,’ Libby explained to Marilyn. ‘He’s been helping, too.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Marilyn. ‘I’m not sure I should let it out of my sight.’

Edward frowned. ‘But strictly speaking, it isn’t yours anyway. It really belongs to Rachel’s heirs.’

‘Family heirs, you mean? There was only a second cousin, who she’d never met. She left a small portion to her and the rest to me.’

Edward and Libby stared at her. ‘So you’re executor
and
beneficiary?’ said Libby eventually.

Marilyn nodded, looking faintly embarrassed.

‘In that case, may I take a copy of it?’ asked Edward. ‘And this complicates the matter even further.’

‘Does it?’ said Libby.

‘If anything is found. Who it belongs to.’

‘The Wyghtham family, really,’ said Marilyn. ‘If it was Godfrey who hid it.’

‘But you said the only heir was a second cousin,’ said Libby.

‘But there are other Wyghtham lines.’ Marilyn sighed. ‘I know that, because Rachel was obsessive about the family history.’

‘She must have had a family tree, then,’ said Edward.

‘She just had her own notes. I used to tell her to get a proper family history done, but she never would.’

‘Have you got the notes?’ asked Libby.

‘No, I never thought they’d be important. I only kept this because it looked old.’

‘We’re going to have to do a proper job on old Godfrey,’ said Libby, ‘out of interest’s sake, if nothing else.’

‘Andrew, then,’ said Edward. ‘May I take a copy, Mrs Fairbrass?’

‘You can take it,’ said Marilyn. ‘You’ll probably look after it better than I will.’

‘Thank you,’ said Edward. ‘I’ll give you a receipt for it.’

Marilyn waved a hand. ‘No, no, it’s fine. Just let me know what happens.’ She stood up. ‘I’m glad I brought it to you. I’ll be even more glad if it’s any help in finding a murderer.’

Libby walked her to the door. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re not in the phone book, neither’s your son. Only under Cob Farm. Do you both live there?’

Marilyn looked amused. ‘Not exactly. Kevin does, but I have what used to be one of the tied cottages. I’m not in the phone book because I only give my number to people who need it. Here,’ she rummaged in the large bag and found a pencil and an old receipt. ‘You can have it. I don’t always answer my mobile, but I’ve put both numbers. And you’ve already got Cob Farm’s number.’

‘Thank you,’ said Libby. ‘I’m in the book.’

She watched Marilyn walk back to the battered Land Rover that was obviously a farm vehicle, and then turned back into the pub.

‘So what do we think of that?’ she asked, sitting down and picking up her drink.

‘I think,’ said Edward, ‘that Evelyn may have been a first wife. We may be wrong in thinking he left money for Rebecca in case he died in the war. If he left any, it would have been for Evelyn.’

‘Unless she had already died and he’d married Rebecca,’ said Libby.

‘We need a family tree,’ said Edward impatiently. ‘I’m going to ring Andrew.’

Libby watched while Edward made the call, recognising the relief in his face and voice when Andrew obviously agreed how important it was.

‘I’m going over there now,’ he said as he ended the call. ‘Would you like to come?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘I’m booked in at Harry’s. Let me know how it goes. And do you think it will help catch a murderer?’

Edward shrugged. ‘No idea. I can’t see how it helps, frankly. All it confirms is that Roland must have genuinely believed Rachel’s story of treasure. And that he must have done at least a bit of research – or Ramani did.’

‘It looks more likely that the theory of getting Ramani to help with a scam is the right one, now, doesn’t it?’ Libby finished her drink and stood up.

‘Maybe.’ Edward put the plastic-covered document back in the folder. ‘Anyway, I’ll at least know a bit more about Sir Godfrey after this.’

Libby pulled a face at his back as he went out of the pub.

‘I said he was selfish,’ she said to Harry ten minutes later, as she sat in the little courtyard at the back of The Pink Geranium with one of her increasingly rare cigarettes. ‘All he’s really interested in is his seventeenth century research, not who killed Ramani and Roland.’

‘Well,’ said Harry reasonably, wiping his hands on his white apron, ‘that’s what he came down here for.’

‘What puzzles me,’ said Libby, ‘is why, if Ramani really was doing research, and we know she went to the church, no notes were found. Nothing.’

‘Do you know that?’ asked Harry. ‘The police might not have told you.’

‘Considering that Ian authorised the search of the house, I think he would have.’ Libby stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I’m sorry I turned up early, but with Edward dashing off to Nethergate, I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘Always happy to be a port in the storm,’ said Harry. ‘I’m going back to my kitchen. I’ll send someone to fetch you when your table’s ready.’

The table Harry had assigned to her was a small one tucked into a corner near the bar counter. It meant she could watch the other customers without being too conspicuous, however one group noticed her almost immediately.

Joe came over and leant on the table.

‘All on yer own, then? Where’s that Ben?’

‘He and Peter have gone up to London. Family, and all that. Are you out for a Cattlegreen Nurseries Christmas do?’

‘No, just fancied coming out. Young Owen doesn’t get out much.’ He sighed as he looked across at his beaming son. ‘Anyhow, how’re you getting on with those smugglers?’

‘Oh, wow – I’d almost forgotten about them,’ said Libby. ‘We started on a different line of enquiry. At least,’ she said frowning, ‘I think we have.’

‘Shame. I’d have loved to hear of one of them guineas being found.’ He grinned at her and went back to his table. Nella and Owen waved.

By the time Libby had almost finished her pollo verde, Harry had finished in the kitchen and come to join her.

‘Joe reminded me about the guineas and the prisoners of war,’ Libby told him. ‘In the excitement of finding out about Sir Godfrey, I’d forgotten them.’

‘I think they were a red herring,’ said Harry. ‘I think it’s much more likely that this Lady Middleton told him about her ancestor and he told Ramani. I still don’t know why anyone should kill either of them, though. Unless it was Adelaide.’

‘No.’ Libby rested her chin on her hand. ‘I’m sure the police haven’t got so distracted by all these historical diversions. I know Ian’s said he’ll look into things when they’ve come up, but in reality I expect he’ll be chasing suspects and looking for evidence and footprints and stuff.’

‘And you won’t know what that evidence is.’

‘Or who the suspects are.’ Libby sighed. ‘And it’s nearly three weeks since Ramani died. That’s a long time.’

‘Did you find out anything about that fake institute?’

‘No.’ Libby frowned. ‘And that really was odd. I could bear to know a bit more about that.’

‘That was one of the things Cuddly Connell was going to look into, wasn’t it?’

Libby snorted into her wine. ‘Cuddly Connell? You wait till I tell him.’

Harry beamed. ‘Tell away.’

‘And Sir Godfrey’s family tree. That’s what we need. When did his family sell to – what was his name? Goodman. William Goodman.’

‘Who?’

‘He was a magistrate who was involved in the smuggling trade. And then there was a vicar called the Reverend Mostyn – although Andrew thought that was a made-up person.’

‘And then there was Middleton.’

‘At some point, yes. It’s fascinating, but doesn’t actually get us any nearer the truth.’

‘The truth of the murders, you mean?’

‘Yes.’ Libby sighed again and drained her wine glass. Harry topped it up. ‘I expect it will turn out to be Carl and Adelaide after all. Or someone else involved with one of them that we don’t know about.’

‘Who are your suspects, exactly?’

‘Carl and Adelaide, obviously. Er … Julian, I suppose. Marilyn Fairbrass too, now, although I think that’s pretty unlikely.’

‘That’s not very many suspects,’ said Harry.

‘No. That’s why I’m pretty sure Ian’s got lots of others. Carl and Adelaide have such good alibis.’

‘What about your mate Edward?’

‘I don’t seriously think he’s got anything to do with it. I’ve been a bit suspicious of him, but he’s so focussed on his subject I think that’s all he’s really interested in, deep down.’

‘But he’s a self-confessed member of Libby’s Loonies now,’ said Harry. ‘He’s been enjoying looking into things.’

‘Yes, because it’s all been historical. And historians have to be detectives, don’t they?’

‘You’re up a gum tree, then.’ Harry stood up. ‘Come on, come outside and have a last fag. I’ll put the heater on.’

Libby pushed her chair back. ‘We don’t half suffer,’ she said.

Later, walking back on her own to number 17, an activity frowned upon by Ben, who foresaw attacks round every corner, Libby thought about the conversation. If this was a detective story, there would be more than the two obvious suspects and two rather tenuous ones. There must be someone she and the others hadn’t thought of. But then, if this
was
a detective story, that would be cheating because that person hadn’t been there right at the beginning.

‘Right,’ she said to Sidney, as she let herself in. Sidney, wisely, decided not to make a dash for the great outdoors and instead walked pointedly to the fireplace, where he sat with his back to the room and his ears down.

‘All right.’ Libby took off her coat and came to stir up the ashes. ‘Now, listen. I’ll light you a fire if you’ll help.’ Sidney looked away. ‘OK, I’ll do it on my own.’ She put a firelighter on the remnants of the earlier fire and loaded kindling on top. ‘Who was there right at the beginning of the story? No, stupid, not Adam. No, not Mog, either. Johnny! He was the one who found the body. And no one’s even thought about him since.’

Libby sat back on her heels and watched the flames curling round the wood. ‘Well, perhaps the police have,’ she told Sidney, who was now washing ostentatiously. ‘I must see if I can’t ask Ian about him. And tell him about Marilyn Fairbrass, although I doubt he’ll be interested in that.’

Satisfied with the thought, she fetched herself a nightcap and a book and curled up on the sofa. It could all wait until morning. But it didn’t.

Chapter Thirty

‘Mum!’

Libby struggled awake and sat up. The fire had died down again, her book was on the floor and her glass was empty.

‘Adam? What is it? What’s the time?’

‘I don’t know. Mum, they’ve arrested Johnny.’

‘Johnny? Oh, Johnny!’ Libby’s brain cleared fully. ‘Um – why are you phoning me, though?’

‘He didn’t do it, Ma. I’m positive. You should have seen him when he found the body.’

‘OK, I’m sure, but why are you telling me? And how do you know?’

‘You know that one call you can have at the police station? Well, Johnny didn’t have anyone else to call, so he called Mog.’

‘What could Mog do?’

‘I don’t know. Neither did Mog. So he called me.’

‘And you called me. But Ad, you know I haven’t got any influence with the police. And this isn’t an aspect of the investigation Fran and I have been concerned with, so we won’t have Ian coming down on Wednesday for a cosy chat about it.’

‘There must be something we can do! Poor sod hadn’t got anyone else to turn to. It’s so sad.’

‘It is,’ agreed Libby, feeling a sympathetic lump forming in her throat. ‘Look, I can’t possibly do anything tonight, not at – ’ she peered at her watch ‘ – gawd, half past one, but in the morning I’ll call Fran and we’ll try and think of something.’

‘Thanks, Ma.’

And what, exactly, can we do? Libby asked herself, as she went around turning off lights. She almost felt guilty for having thought about Johnny Templeton as a suspect earlier in the evening, even though she told herself that was stupid. But now she was wide awake, and without Ben beside her, she knew she would dwell on it for hours. Sighing, she climbed the stairs.

Sure enough, after a night of fitful sleep, she was up by seven o’clock, still wondering what evidence the police had against Johnny Templeton. At eight o’clock she was showered and dressed, unheard of on a Sunday, and wondering if it was too early to ring Fran. As she reached for the phone, it rang.

‘What’s wrong, Libby?’

‘Fran? I was just going to ring you, but I thought it might be too early.’

‘No, I’ve been awake for a while, and something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

Libby told her everything from what she now saw as traitorous thoughts about Johnny to her sleepless night after Adam’s phone call.

‘And I have no idea what we can do,’ she finished. ‘We can’t possibly look into it, but Adam says Johnny’s got no one else.’

‘There must be some evidence,’ said Fran. ‘They wouldn’t arrest someone out of the blue.’

‘He was the one who found the body. And he lives on the premises,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose he could have killed Ramani the night before, and killed Roland because – what? Can’t figure that one out.’

‘And why did he kill Ramani? He doesn’t sound the sort of man to be her type.’

‘Well, as you said, there must be evidence of some kind, but it’s just so unlikely. I wish I could think of somehow we could help.’

‘You could try Adelaide,’ said Fran slowly.

‘Adelaide? But she’s missing!’

‘Try,’ said Fran.

‘But how could she help?’

‘She might be allowed to see him, as his employer.’

‘But if he’s being questioned he won’t be allowed to see her.’

‘I just think it’s worth a try, that’s all.’

‘But how do I find her?’ cried Libby helplessly. ‘We and the police have been trying for three days.’

‘Try the phone.’

Libby ended the call and stared grumpily at the handset. Then, sighing, she punched in Adelaide’s number. To her surprise, a recorded message answered her.

‘Adelaide, we’ve been trying to get hold of you for days. Julian’s looking for you as well and I thought you ought to know that Johnny – John – Templeton’s been arrested. And I spoke to Marilyn Fairbrass yesterday. Er – bye.’

She rang Fran back. ‘I’ve done it and left a message. That was different, too. There was no recorded message the last time I tried.’

‘I think you might hear from her. Or the police might.’

‘Really? She’s definitely not dead, then?’

‘Why should she be dead?’

‘Well, Ramani and Roland are. It just seemed to follow.’

‘Unless someone else has turned on her voicemail – unlikely – she’s still alive and using her phone.’

‘In that case, the police should have traced her. They can do that, can’t they?’

‘If they’ve been taking her disappearance that seriously, yes. But no one seems to have been that worried about her.’

‘Her son is.’

‘That’s different.’

‘I suppose it is.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Oh, well, there’s nothing else we can do, is there. I wish there was.’

‘For once, the police have beaten us to it, Lib. Or rather, they’ve known a lot more than we have. We didn’t pay any attention to Johnny, even though they always say the person who finds the body is statistically most likely to be the murderer.’

‘But he didn’t find Roland’s body.’

‘No,’ Libby could almost hear Fran frowning. ‘And that’s a very odd thing. The grotto was still taped off as a crime scene. Whoever put Roland’s body there was very determined.’

‘And we don’t even know when that was,’ said Libby. ‘All the police would have to go on would be the last time they were there themselves.’

‘There’ll have been a post mortem by now,’ said Fran. ‘I’m sure they know.’

‘But Ian hasn’t told us.’

‘No, all he’ll talk about is the parts of the investigation we’ve been involved in. You know that.’

Libby sighed. ‘I know. It just comes as a shock when you realise how much dogged police work has been going on while we’ve been enjoying ourselves doing historical research.’

‘That’s what the police always say about crime dramas on TV, isn’t it? If they showed all the real routine they’d be too boring to watch.’

‘Well, they must have been doing a hell of a lot of boring stuff. We’ll just have to wait.’

Libby ended the call and found Adam’s number.

‘Hey, Ma.’ He sounded as though he’d just woken up.

‘Oh, sorry, darling, I forgot how early it is was,’ said Libby. ‘Just calling to say I’ve talked to Fran about Johnny, and she suggested I try to call Adelaide.’

‘Adelaide?’ Adam stifled a yawn. ‘But I thought she’d gone missing?’

‘She has, but Fran seemed to think she’d surface again. I’m also going to ring Marilyn Fairbrass. She must know Johnny better than we do.’

‘OK. Let me know if anything happens before I see you at lunchtime.’

‘Lunch – ? Oh, bloody hell, it’s Sunday! Thanks for reminding me, Ad. I hope Pete and Ben are back in time.’

Unable to settle, Libby suddenly decided to make a Christmas cake. It would still have two weeks to mature, she thought, and even if she didn’t like it herself, it would be a welcome addition to the Boxing Day open house she and Ben held at number 17.

Having covered herself and the kitchen liberally with flour and dripped egg white, the phone ringing came as an unwelcome interruption. Trying to pick it up without transferring putative cake, she muttered ‘Hello,’ and wiped her hands on a tea towel.

‘Libby, this is Adelaide Watson.’

Libby practically dropped the phone.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been out of contact. Carl told me you’d been looking for me.’

‘Carl …’ began Libby.

‘Yes. I’m afraid I went straight to his house when I left you on Wednesday.’

‘So you’ve been there all the time?’ Libby began to get angry. ‘While your poor son was thinking the worst? His father murdered and you disappeared – what was he supposed to think?’

‘I know. I didn’t think. I just wanted to get away.’

‘Well, you didn’t get very far, did you? Have you called the police?’

‘Not yet. Carl – er – we – er – 
I
thought I’d ask you what was going on first.’

‘Have you called Julian?’

‘Yes. Before I got your message. He wanted to come down, but I told him not to.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. Now, I suggest you call the police. They’ll be bound to want to ask you questions about Johnny Templeton – how you knew him, how long he’d worked for you. All that sort of thing.’ Libby decided not to say anything about the other questions the police might want to ask about fake Napoleonic Institutes and priest holes, in case Adelaide took off again.

Adelaide sighed. ‘All right. They’ll want to see me, I suppose.’

‘I expect they’ll want you at the station,’ said Libby. ‘If I were you, I’d not bother to ring, I’d go straight there.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Adelaide. ‘I’ll ask Carl.’

‘He hasn’t given you much good advice so far, has he?’ said Libby. ‘Did you get so used to giving in to Roland you’ve lost any willpower of your own? Really, Adelaide.’

‘I’ll do what I like,’ said Adelaide, and cut the connection.

Libby immediately called Ian’s private mobile number, where she left a message, then his work line.

‘Connell,’ he barked.

‘Ian, it’s me – listen.’ Libby broke across the stifled expletive. ‘Adelaide Watson. She’s been hiding out with Carl Oxenford and –’

‘What?’ Ian shouted. ‘How do you know?’

‘She just called me. I tried her mobile again after I heard about Johnny Templeton and her voice mail was switched on, so I left a message. She’s just called me back. I told her to come into the police station, but she said she’s asking Carl.’

‘Are they at his house?’

‘I assume so. He was there yesterday. I saw him.’

‘Right. I’ll get someone out there straight away. Thanks, Libby. Oh – and how did you know about Templeton?’

‘He called Mog after he was arrested. He doesn’t have anyone else.’

‘Hmm,’ said Ian. ‘If I have a moment, I’ll call you later.’

‘Oh, bugger,’ said Libby to Sidney. ‘I still don’t know why Johnny was arrested.’

She called Fran to bring her up to date, and went back to the cake mix without enthusiasm, where Ben discovered her half an hour later.

‘You have been busy,’ he said, when she’d finished recounting the events of Saturday and Sunday. ‘And making a cake, too.’

‘I didn’t know what to do with myself while I was waiting for you,’ Libby admitted, sliding the cake tin into the Rayburn. ‘I’ve had enough of cooking now. I’m glad we’re going to Hetty’s.’

‘I think Flo and Lenny are coming today, too,’ said Ben. ‘Flo has a bottle of something special that needs opening, apparently.’

Lenny was Hetty’s brother, Flo her oldest friend. After years apart, they had found each other again and Lenny had moved into Flo’s sheltered accommodation with her. Flo’s late husband had been something of a wine buff and left her the contents of his cellar, which she now guarded with the devotion of a connoisseur.

‘That’s something to look forward to,’ said Libby, brightening. ‘And now tell me how your day went.’

By the time Libby and Ben arrived at The Manor, Peter, Adam, Flo and Lenny were all assembled round the huge kitchen table, while Hetty transferred trays of vegetables into old blue and white dishes. On top of the Aga, the roast beef rested quietly under its overcoat of tea-towels.

Supplied with aperitifs of gin and tonic (for a change), they all exchanged news. Adam was most concerned with the plight of Johnny Templeton, but Libby was able to console him with the news that now she had helped Ian find Adelaide Watson, she might be able to get something out of him.

‘You’d think she’d ʼave stopped all this lark by now, wouldn’t you?’ Flo said to Hetty. ‘Yer gettin’ too old, gal.’

‘Oh, thanks, Flo,’ said Libby. ‘No offence taken, I’m sure.’

‘We’re all younger at our age than you were when you were our age,’ explained Ben, putting an arm round Libby. ‘If you know what I mean.ʼ

‘I was always young fer me age,’ said Lenny, brushing his little white moustache proudly.

‘Specially when you was nineteen,’ said Flo, giving him a dig in the ribs. ‘Wouldn’t look at yer twice.’

It was while they were all laughing at this that Libby’s phone rang. About to switch it off she looked at the caller.

‘Ian,’ she said to the table, and answered it.

‘Libby, I think I’m going to have to talk to you officially. I don’t want to have to bring you in to the station, so I’m coming round now.’

‘What?’

‘I think we may have found the source of your stories of treasure.’