Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery (4 page)

Chapter Seven

Mike Farthing shook hands all round. Tall, with a slight stoop, his blue shirt looked a little rumpled, the beige trousers more suited to summer than mid-winter.

‘Cass said she’d been using your mail order service for some time,’ said Libby. ‘She seems most impressed.’

Mike Farthing smiled down – not an easy feat – at Cassandra. ‘One of my best customers,’ he said. ‘I’m very pleased to meet her in person.’

‘And you knew Vernon Bowling?’

‘He was a customer, too. He was planting up his garden and I was helping him.’

‘Was it a new garden?’ asked Ben. ‘Are you designing it?’

Mike smiled deprecatingly. ‘We-ell, just suggesting you know …’

‘Was it a new house?’ asked Libby. ‘We saw a couple of new houses between Shott and Bishop’s Bottom.’

‘Yes,’ said Mike, looking surprised. ‘Neo-Georgian, just along Rogues Lane.’

‘We saw it,’ nodded Libby. ‘Looked a bit bare, up on that rise all on its own.’

‘Yes, he wanted quick-growing trees and hedging. I was trying to steer him away from Leylandii.’

‘What was he like?’ asked Peter. ‘He was a scientist, wasn’t he?’

‘He had been. I don’t think he liked to talk about his past.’ Mike shook his head.

‘Dellington, of course,’ said Libby nodding sagely despite the fact that twenty-four hours ago she had no idea what Dellington was.

‘Have the police spoken to you?’ asked Ben. ‘They asked us if we knew any of the members of the group.’

‘Oh, yes. A very polite constable came round this morning. Apart from Ron Stewart I suppose I knew him as well as anyone did. In fact it was Vernon who introduced me to the group.’ Mike laughed. ‘Said I needed to get out more.’

‘Was he right?’ said Cassandra.

‘I suppose so.’ Mike shrugged. ‘I spend most of my life with plants. The only thing I do apart from that is occasionally attend the bigger shows. Which I hate. I pop down to the local now and then, and then of course, there’s our Joint Villages show.’

‘Oh, we heard about that this morning from George at The Red Lion in Heronsbourne,’ said Libby.

‘You know George? He and Sid at The Poacher are mates.’

‘We’ve met Sid, too,’ said Libby.

Everyone turned and looked at her.

‘You’ve been investigating.’ Ben frowned.

‘You knew Fran and I went out this morning,’ said Libby. ‘Harry phoned while we were having lunch with Patti at The Red Lion.’

‘I didn’t know quite what you were doing,’ said Ben. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘Or me,’ said Peter.

‘Well, she told me,’ said Cassandra. ‘Which is why I brought Mike over.’

Lewis, who had drifted away, now drifted back.

‘I’m going to fetch Mum now. She doesn’t like to stay out too late these days.’ He made a vague salute towards Mike. ‘See you next rehearsal, mate.’

Most of the other members of the group had also now gone, and Sir Andrew came towards them while Peter went to close up the bar.

‘So we go on,’ he said, and turned to Mike. ‘Sorry –?’

‘This is Mike Farthing, Andrew,’ said Libby. ‘Mike, Sir Andrew McColl.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Mike as they shook hands. ‘Very decent of you to let us be part of your concert.’

Sir Andrew smiled. ‘Well, we really did need some kind of local connection, rather than just trotting out my professional mates, and I have to say that having Lewis Osbourne-Walker and Ron Stewart was a draw. I just hope it hasn’t all backfired.’

‘Look it’s early, yet,’ said Ben. ‘Why don’t we adjourn to the pub. Mike – will you join us?’

Mike Farthing’s face brightened. ‘I’d love to, thank you.’ He smiled at Cassandra, and Libby was secretly pleased to see faint colour come into her cousin’s cheeks. Oho, she thought. Perhaps I won’t have to do much more persuading to get her to move down here.

Sir Andrew was staying at the pub, as he usually did, despite Libby and Ben’s attempts to get him to stay at the Manor, and Peter and Harry’s standing invitation to stay with them. He always maintained he didn’t want to be a nuisance. Now, he walked up to the bar and insisted he buy the first round.

‘My concert,’ he told them. ‘My fault, in a way, that this has happened.’

‘Oh, hardly,’ said Ben. ‘The group were already in existence. It could have happened any time.’

‘I just wish it hadn’t happened at a rehearsal,’ said Mike. ‘And away from our usual haunt. That really narrows it down to members of our group.’ He sighed.

‘On the other hand,’ said Libby, ‘it could be the other way round. That someone here recognised him.’

‘But he hadn’t been seen in the village,’ said Mike. ‘We parked at the church, went into the hall and that was it. None of us have gone into the village at all.’

‘Now,’ said Sir Andrew, as he returned to the table accompanied by the barman with a tray, ‘let’s not talk any more about the murder. It’s depressing enough as it is, and good though you are at solving mysteries, Libby dear, let’s forget it for the moment.’

‘Are you?’ said Mike, looking interested. ‘Good at mysteries?’

‘Oh, she’s well known locally,’ said Cassandra, with a grin. ‘The local Miss Marple.’

Libby shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’m not.’

‘She’s nosy,’ said Peter. ‘Our favourite nosy old trout. She and her friend Fran have a habit of getting involved in anything vaguely unsavoury around here.’

Cassandra darted a look at her cousin. ‘I’ll bring Fran and Libby over to see you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m dying to see the nursery for myself.’

Mike smiled at her. ‘I’d like that. I’m always there, so0 anytime.’

Shortly after that, the party broke up. Mike refused another drink, saying that the road to Shott was bad enough sober, and Cassandra saying she was tired. As they stood to leave, she said in Libby’s ear, ‘I thought you probably wanted to ask him more questions. Did I do right?’

Libby beamed and kissed her cheek. ‘My favourite cousin!’ she said.

Asked the following morning if she wanted to join Libby and Cassandra on a trip to Farthing’s Plants, Fran declined, saying she did have a life, you know, and had Libby realised it wasn’t long until Christmas.

‘It’s not like her,’ said Libby, as she manoeuvred Ben’s four-by-four out of Allhallow’s Lane. ‘I mean, she’s always trying to stop me getting involved with things, but she usually gives in and gets as interested as I do.’

‘She’s right, though, Lib,’ said Cassandra. ‘After all, this isn’t a job, is it? And Fran does help Guy with the gallery and shop, so she has other things to do.’

Libby sighed. ‘I know she’s right. And I know that I’m simply incurably nosy.’ She brightened. ‘But sometimes I’m asked for help – even by the police. Well, by Ian, anyway.’

‘Is he your tame policeman?’

‘I wouldn’t say tame, exactly, but we became friends after Fran helped him with a murder investigation some years ago. He was very interested in Fran for a while, but she came down on Guy’s side in the end.’ Libby glanced across at Cassandra. ‘Pity you’re not a bit younger. You would have done very well for Ian.’

‘Well, thanks! I’m sorry I’m not younger, too! But I wouldn’t worry about me. I’m used to living on my own, and I don’t think I could stand a man around the place after all this time.’

‘That’s how I felt when I got together with Ben,’ said Libby. ‘But – I don’t know – we sort of slid into living together. He’d stay overnight, and then it would be two nights, and some of his stuff would appear in the cottage and there we were. He did try and persuade me to move into Steeple Farm a while ago, but it didn’t feel right.’

‘Steeple Farm?’

‘Where Ben’s Aunt Millie – Peter’s mother, you know – lived. It technically belongs to Peter and his brother James, but Ben renovated it, you knew he was an architect, didn’t you? And now it’s let. It used to be short-term lets only, holidays and stuff, but that was too much like hard work, so now it’s let to a permanent tenant.’

‘Why didn’t you want to go? What’s wrong with it?’

‘Oh, nothing. It’s lovely and much bigger than my cottage, but I hated its eyebrows. You know, those little slitty windows in the thatch. I always felt it was sinister.’

‘So who has it now? Are they there for a long time?’

‘Why?’ Libby shot another look at her cousin. ‘Not thinking of taking it on yourself are you?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Cassandra, looking guilty. ‘Just wondered.’

‘Well, the truth is, I don’t know. Now I don’t have to do any of the cleaning between lets I don’t get involved with it. Ben deals with it all at the Manor, in between looking after the tenant farmers and the woodyard. Not that he has much to do. I think he escapes up there to get out of my way. And his mum loves to have him there.’

‘That’s Hetty, right?’

‘Yes, she’s lovely. I expect you’ll meet her sooner or later. Look here’s the turning for Shott. Where did you say Mike’s nursery is?’

Mike’s instructions led them round the village green and back up Rogues Lane past the big new house Libby now knew belonged to Vernon Bowling. A turning on the left had a small metal sign pointing to Farthing’s Plants at its side, and Libby turned the 4x4 cautiously into the lane.

‘Don’t know how he gets delivery trucks in here,’ she muttered as they bounced over the rutted surface. ‘It’s more like a farm track.’

‘Farm tracks have delivery lorries,’ said Cassandra. ‘Think of the animal transporters. Look, here we are.’

The track finished in a wide sweep of gravel before what had once been a farm building. To their right, huge glasshouses stretched away.

Cassandra climbed out of the car and strode towards the farm building without waiting for Libby. Her grey hair was, as usual, escaping its moorings, and with her sensible combat trousers she wore equally sensible walking boots. Her duffle coat had definitely seen better days, and Libby smiled fondly. If Cassandra was interested in Mike Farthing as more than a plantsman, as Libby suspected, she certainly wasn’t using any feminine wiles to attract him. She locked the car and followed.

Before she could catch up, Cassandra was out of the building and pointing to the glasshouses.

‘Somewhere in there, apparently,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t know which one.’

‘They?’

‘Two lads. They were making up parcels. Come on.’

The first glasshouse was considerably warmer than the outside, and Libby undid her cape, while Cassandra sloughed off the duffle coat. They wandered between rows and rows of plants in various stages of development, until they came across a small, elderly lady who pointed them in the direction of the next glasshouse, where Cassandra’s superior height gave her the ability to spot Mike at the far end. At the same time he saw them, and waved. They met somewhere in the middle, and Libby was pleased to see the obvious delight he and Cassandra had in meeting for a second time.

‘Let’s go into the shed and have some coffee,’ he said. ‘No one will disturb us there. It’s a bit like an allotment shed.’

He led the way out of the glasshouse across a muddy yard and into a shed of considerable antiquity. Inside, it was, as he’d said, very like an allotment shed. A deckchair and two stools, a kettle, mugs, and various books made it the ultimate retreat, Libby thought, remembering her grandfather’s allotment, where she had been taken as a special treat every now and then.

‘Now,’ he said, as he spooned instant coffee into mugs. ‘What did you want to ask me, Libby?’

Chapter Eight

Libby squirmed. ‘Um – well – we – er – Cass wanted to see …’

‘Yes, I know that.’ Mike grinned at Cassandra and handed her a mug. ‘But we’re actually talking about Vernon Bowling’s murder, aren’t we?’

Libby sighed. ‘All right, I admit it. But Ian’s policemen only skim the surface and all they would have asked was if you knew him well, did he have any enemies – that sort of thing.’

‘Who’s Ian?’ asked Mike.

Libby explained. ‘So it’s good to get a more – er – 
in-depth
idea from someone who actually knew him. And if you know anyone else in the group.’

Mike frowned, his weather-beaten face crinkling like an old apple. ‘Well, I suppose I know Ron. He lives in the other house.’

‘The other house?’ said Cassandra.

‘At Bishop’s Bottom – same builder did his and Vernon’s.’

‘Oh, Fran and I saw it on the way to Heronsbourne,’ said Libby. ‘I wonder why Sid didn’t tell us that? Or that Vernon Bowling lived in what he called “the big house”.’

‘Protecting them, I expect. After all, you turn up a couple of days after Vernon’s murder …’

‘He didn’t say anything about Vernon,’ said Libby, ‘he was protecting Ron Stewart. I suppose he gets a lot of people asking about him.’

‘Some,’ agreed Mike, ‘but not many people except the locals know he lives here. The occasional manic Jonah Fludde fan, of course.’

‘So did he and Vernon know each other well? They shared the same builder, after all,’ said Libby.

‘I thought it was just coincidence,’ said Mike, ‘but yes, they knew each other. Used to share lifts to the uke group, but I don’t know anything else. I did some of Ron’s garden, too.’

‘What’s he like?’ asked Cassandra.

‘Ron? All right, I suppose. Quiet, likes to look the part.’

‘That’s what Patti said. Ripped jeans, leather jacket, big boots.’

Mike grinned. ‘That’s it, but I think it’s a bit of a pose. He plays classical music when he’s at home.’

‘Has he got a studio at the house?’ said Libby.

‘Oh, yes. The attic – well, where an attic would be – the whole of the roof space. I believe he makes all the Fludde albums there.’

‘Goodness, are they still recording?’ asked Cassandra. ‘They’re a bunch of old hippies, aren’t they?’

‘Fran tells me they still perform at festivals and things,’ said Libby. ‘So I suppose there’s still a market for new records.’

‘They’re not records anymore, Lib,’ her cousin informed her.

‘I know, I know. Anyway, so he and Vernon knew each other. Before they came here presumably.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Mike.

‘Well, they’ve got the same houses, built by the same builder …’

‘But the builder might have built them on spec,’ said Cassandra.

‘No, Vernon’s was commissioned,’ said Mike.

‘So did the builder just use the same plans to build a replica just down the road? On spec? How would Ron have heard of it?’ Libby argued. ‘No, they knew one another before. Perhaps Vernon was a Jonah Fludde fan. There must have been an age gap, though?’

Mike shook his head. ‘Not much. They were both young in the late sixties, early seventies.’

‘Oh, I suppose so.’ Libby frowned. ‘I wonder if their friendship went back that far?’

‘Why are you trying to find a connection between them, Lib?’ asked Cassandra. ‘They knew one another. Isn’t that enough?’

‘No,’ said Libby. ‘I want to know if there’s a reason for murder in their – um – association.’ She turned to Mike. ‘Did Vernon seem to be friendly with anyone else in the group?’

‘He was friendly with everybody,’ said Mike. ‘Quiet, but friendly. We usually have a drink after meetings. I didn’t go the other night, thank God, because of the drive back here.’

‘Where do you usually rehearse?’

‘Oh, it’s not so much a rehearsal, just a get together. The group meet every other Monday in the back of The Poacher. This is the first time we’ve actually rehearsed for anything.’

‘Oh.’ Libby looked disappointed. ‘So you don’t know anything more about any of the members?’

‘Not really. There’s Derek Chandler, he’s a solicitor, Lewis, of course …’

‘Do you know Lewis?’

Mike looked surprised. ‘Of course! I’m his garden supplier – I introduced him to the group. Or rather, I was telling Edie about it one day when I was over there and she was very keen, so when she told Lewis he decided they’d both join.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘Then you might have met my son. He and his boss do a lot over at Creekmarsh.’

‘Adam? He’s your son? Well, what a small world!’ Mike beamed at her. ‘They’re good you know, him and his boss. But he doesn’t look the type to be a gardener.’

‘Well, he wasn’t. He got his degree and couldn’t get a job – you know, the usual – and then Mog offered him some temporary work. And he’s still there. He loves it. Occasionally he helps out at our friend’s restaurant as well.’

‘Well, he’s happy, and he obviously loves plants. Are you a gardener?’

‘Libby is to gardens as a snowstorm in summer,’ said Cassandra. ‘Disaster.’

‘Oh, I’m not that bad,’ protested Libby. ‘My little patch isn’t bad.’

‘No, but all you’ve got is the cherry tree and a few shrubs.’

‘Well, it’s a small garden,’ said Libby, on the defensive.

‘I bet there’s more you could do with it,’ said Mike.

‘Of course there is. I’m going to have a go at it while I’m here,’ said Cassandra.

‘I’ll help, if you like,’ said Mike, looking at her.

‘Oi! I’m still here, you know.’ Libby glared. ‘And I might not
want
anything done to it.’

Mike looked abashed, but Cassandra sat up straight and fixed Libby with her headmistress stare. ‘Nonsense. I’ll just pretty it up a bit. Pots. You can move them about.’

‘We-ell,’ said Libby, ‘I suppose …’

‘Good that’s settled, then,’ said Cassandra. ‘When do you have some time, Mike?’

‘I can leave the shop in charge of the boys – we don’t do that much at this time of year, and we don’t sell trees or holly or mistletoe, so I could come over tomorrow if that’s all right. How long are you down here for?’

‘I don’t really know,’ said Cassandra, glancing at Libby. ‘I only meant to come for the weekend, really …’

‘Stay as long as you like,’ said Libby. ‘Harry won’t turn you out of the flat.’

‘Flat? I thought you were staying with –?’ he gestured at Libby.

‘I forgot she was coming, so our friend Harry is putting her up in the flat over his restaurant.’

‘The same restaurant your son works in?’

‘That’s the one. So she can come and go as she pleases,’ Libby said pointedly, and Cassandra glared at her.

‘Ah,’ said Mike, and looked at his hands.

‘Well, we’ll see you tomorrow,’ said Libby, standing up, ‘but before I forget, what about this Dr Robinson?’

‘I don’t know much about him. He started the original group in Canterbury, I think, but this one’s taken him over, especially with the concert coming up.’

‘Is he medical?’

‘Eh?’

‘You know – a medical doctor, or a doctor of philosophy or something?’

‘I’ve no idea!’ Mike looked startled. ‘I always assumed he was a medical doctor, but perhaps not. He’s just Eric.’

‘Right, Lib, that’s enough questions. Poor Mike must feel he’s been hit with a battering ram.’ Cassandra stood up and held out her hand. ‘See you tomorrow, Mike, and thanks for the coffee.’

Libby followed them out of the shed noting the easy manner in which they conversed as they walked, their loose strides matching. Cassandra would certainly
not
be going home at the end of the weekend.

‘Was that worthwhile?’ asked Cassandra as they drove away.

‘I don’t know, was it?’ Libby glanced sideways at her cousin.

‘What do you mean? We went there for you to ask questions.’

‘And for you to check Mike out.’

‘Libby! He’s a very good – plantsman. We’ve got quite friendly over the years.’

‘It’s a wonder you’ve not been down before, then.’

‘Well, I’m here now,’ snapped Cassandra, and turned her head pointedly towards the side window. Libby grinned.

She dropped Cassandra outside The Pink Geranium and drove home. The answerphone light was blinking when she let herself in.

‘Fran? You left a message?’ Libby tucked the phone between chin and shoulder while she manoeuvred herself out of her cape.

‘Yes, and on your mobile, as well.’

‘I was driving. I told you – Cass and I went over to Mike Farthing’s. I asked you to come.’

‘I know you did. I was going to tell you I’ve met another member of the ukulele group.’

‘You have? How?’ Libby sat down by the table in the window and pulled her laptop towards her.

‘He came into the gallery this morning to buy Christmas cards.’

‘How do you know he was in the group? Did he tell you?’

‘Oh, yes. The first thing he said was, were you and I investigating the murder? He knows who we are, you see. Then he said he was a member, so I asked him about Vernon Bowling. He got a bit tight-lipped, but said he didn’t know him well. I got the feeling he didn’t like him much.’

‘So you’ve seen him before?’

‘He’s quite a regular. He used to live in Steeple Martin and retired down here some years ago with his wife, but she died. He’s always seemed a bit sad and lonely to me.’

‘Perhaps that’s why he joined the group.’

‘Yes, that’s what he said. And then he – well, it was a bit odd. He started to say something else, like “I wouldn’t if …” and then he hesitated and said, “If I’d known there would be a murder”, but I’m sure that wasn’t what he started saying.’

‘Like – “If I’d known Vernon Bowling was a member”, do you think?’

‘It did cross my mind,’ said Fran, ‘as he’d been a bit odd when I asked about Bowling.’

‘Would he talk to you again, do you think?’

‘I doubt it. When he asked if we were investigating and I said no, he said “Good. Leave it to the police”.’

‘But people are always saying that to us,’ said Libby. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Bob Alton, but honestly, Lib, I don’t think you’d get anything out of him. And after all, you’ve got no connection with the thing, so no right to barge in.’

‘I know, I know. But don’t you want to hear how we got on this morning?’

Libby repeated all the details of the conversation with Mike Farthing. ‘And Cassandra had the cheek to say she was going to have a go at my garden and Mike’s going to help her. Starting tomorrow.’

‘But it’s midwinter! Not exactly the time to start redesigning a garden.’

‘She said pots. Can she do pots in midwinter?’

‘She could plant some up ready for spring I suppose. You’d have to keep them in the conservatory.’

‘I knew it. It’s just an excuse for her to see Mike Farthing again. Honestly, Fran, it was like watching a couple of grey-haired teenagers. If we have that conversation again about her moving down here I don’t think we’d have to do much persuading.’

‘Hold on,’ laughed Fran, ‘they’ve only just met.’

‘No, they haven’t. They’ve known one another for years, apparently, through his nursery. They’ve emailed and talked on the phone – it’s just like internet dating.’

‘Hmm. I remember when Rosie tried that,’ said Fran.

‘Rosie was a different kettle of fish. She really wanted to meet a man, even though she must be the same age as Cass. Cass and Mike have a common interest, that’s what’s brought them together.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, what are you going to do now?’

‘Put something in the slow cooker for dinner and think about tonight’s rehearsal,’ said Libby. ‘Why?’

‘I meant about the murder.’

‘Nothing. You just said yourself, no reason to barge in.’ Libby eyes strayed to the laptop screen, where the first page of search results for Vernon Bowling was showing.

‘That’s never stopped you yet.’

‘Well, it’ll have to, now. Unless Lewis or Edie get arrested and I have to rescue them.’

‘Ha! Let me know if that happens.’

Libby switched off the phone and clicked on the top result for Vernon Bowling, which turned out to be a report of his murder. The next result was his wiki entry which contained the bare facts about the Dellington experiments, and details of his subsequent career as a research scientist of no particular note. She sighed and closed the laptop. It really wasn’t her business. On impulse, she stood up and put her cape back on. She would go and ask Cass to come out to lunch, and dinner could wait.

She was almost level with Bob the butcher’s shop when she became aware of a slight commotion ahead of her and saw a mobility scooter bearing down on her from across the road. Driving it grim-faced and malignant, was Monica Turner, terror of Maltby Close, her white hair tightly curled, her bright red coat at odds with her glowering face. And she was heading straight for Libby.

Libby stopped. Surely the old bat wasn’t going to run her over? She passed under review anything she might have done recently to incur the old lady’s displeasure. She soon found out.

‘You!’ said Monica Turner. ‘It’s always your fault! And now, on top of that fornicating racket every Monday night so a person can’t sleep, it’s murder. So what are you going to do about it?’