Murder by the Sea - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 2

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The next panto, would you believe?’ Libby sighed again. ‘I’ve written it this year, but I want to be in it, not direct.’

  ‘Is it mutually exclusive?’ Guy regarded her with bright brown eyes full of amusement. ‘Would you be struck off if you did both?’

  ‘It’s too difficult to do both, to be honest. Anyway, I don’t want to strain my poor brain any more than I have to, and directing’s such a responsibility.’

  ‘Are you going to do it again, Fran?’ Guy looked over at Fran, whose serene gaze was fixed on the horizon, her dark hair framing her face like a latter day – and slightly mature – Madonna.

  ‘No.’ Fran looked back at him. ‘I don’t learn lines as well as I used to, and it’s one thing turning out every night if you live round the corner, and quite another with a twenty minute drive each way.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘I said I’d help, Lib. Props, or something. As long as I don’t have to be there all the time.’

  Guy was looking pleased. ‘So you’ll be here more often,’ he said.

  ‘More often than what?” asked Fran, looking surprised. ‘I’m here all the time at the moment.’

  ‘I meant more often than if you had been doing the panto,’ said Guy, with a cornered expression.

  ‘Ah,’ said Libby and Fran together.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Fran. ‘Let’s go back and see how that picture’s coming along.’

  Chapter Two

  LIBBY WATCHED THE KENT and Coast local news programme with her cat on her lap. Sidney the silver tabby rarely condescended to quite this much intimacy, and Libby concluded that he was intent on obliterating all scent of Fran’s cat Balzac, an altogether more accommodating animal.

  According to the reporter, standing on the hard outside The Sloop, where The Blue Anchor could just be seen on the left and the mast of the Dolphin bobbing in and out of the picture on the right, an unidentified body had been spotted by holidaymakers on the far side of what was known locally as Dragon Island. The body had been brought in by the lifeboat, summoned by boat owner George Isles. The reporter turned to George.

  ‘’Tweren’t me, son, it were Jane over there. She spotted it.’ The camera swung quickly away from the reporter’s discomfited expression to where a young woman sat at a table outside The Blue Anchor.

  ‘That’s the person we saw speak to the policeman this morning,’ Libby told Sidney.

  ‘A holiday maker on your boat?’ asked the reporter.

  ‘No, she’m a local. Works for the newspaper,’ said George, obviously pleased with the effect he was having. ‘Helps me on the boat sometimes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Isles,’ said the reporter, ‘and now back to the studio.’

  ‘I wonder why they didn’t edit that bit,’ said Libby, realising that the interview had been recorded not long after they had seen the television van that afternoon. ‘Made the reporter look very silly.’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Ben Wilde appeared from the kitchen.

  ‘Oh! You made me jump.’ Libby put Sidney on the floor and stood up. ‘I wish you’d call out when you come in the back way. I was talking to Sidney.’

  Ben came over and gave her a kiss. ‘I did.’

  ‘Not until you got in here,’ said Libby.

  ‘What were you talking to Sidney about?’ asked Ben, going to a tray of drinks on the table in the window and pouring himself a scotch. ‘Want one?’

  Libby shook her head. ‘A bit early.’ She turned off the television. ‘We saw a television van in Nethergate this afternoon, so I was watching to see what had happened.’

  ‘Oh, that body,’ said Ben. ‘It was on the national news this afternoon.’

  ‘Really? I wonder why?’

  ‘It’s summer – the silly season. And it sounds as though this is a holiday-maker tragedy. That always goes down well with the public.’

  ‘Ben! That’s awful.’ Libby sat down again and lit a cigarette.

  ‘I thought you were giving up?’

  Libby scowled. ‘I object to being forced into it by the government,’ she said.

  Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘I would never have known,’ he murmured. ‘What time is this production meeting?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Bert, as he, Jane and George sat over a drink outside The Sloop. ‘At least yours will be an authentic eye witness report. Bet you your boss will put it on the front page.’

  ‘Ha! One in the eye for that bloody telly reporter,’ said George, stubbing out his cigarette.

  ‘Can we go inside now?’ asked Jane, shivering slightly.

  ‘You can,’ said George. ‘I’m having another fag.’

  Jane sighed.

  ‘So how did they get on to it so quick?’ asked Bert, taking a blackened pipe out of his pocket. Jane sighed again.

  ‘Media wire,’ she said. ‘I got on to one of the nationals.’

  Bert and George looked at her as though she was speaking a foreign language.

  ‘Ah,’ said George.

  ‘Well, you want to get an angle,’ said Bert sucking noisily on the pipe stem while applying George’s Zippo to the bowl.

  ‘That’s what I told my boss,’ said Jane. ‘An in-depth follow up.’

  ‘’Ow can you do that without knowin’ ’oo the stiff is?’ George was an avid viewer of the older-style American cop movies.

  Jane was silent for a moment.

  ‘Come on, ducks,’ said Bert. ‘Whatcher got in mind?’

  ‘I wondered about that lady.’

  ‘What lady?’ Bert raised his eyebrows.

  ‘The one George was talking about,’ said Jane.

  ‘’Er in Coastguard Cottage,’ rumbled George.

  ‘Mrs Castle.’ Bert sucked on his pipe. ‘What about her?’

  ‘She was involved with that murder last Christmas, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, ah.’ Bert nodded. ‘That Ian Connell got her involved. I reckon he fancied her.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jane looked disappointed. ‘Do you mean she couldn’t really help?’

  ‘Don’t know as I know,’ said Bert. ‘Some talk of her being psychic, wasn’t there, George?’

  ‘’Elped ’im afore. Some other murder.’

  ‘So she’s official, then?’ said Jane, leaning forward.

  ‘Wouldn’t say official, like,’ said Bert, ‘but done it before, yes.’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Jane and stood up. ‘Anyone for another pint?’

  The production meeting was taking place in The Pink Geranium. Harry, Peter Parker’s civil partner, was chef and co-owner with Peter, and occasional helper at The Oast House Theatre. Tonight, there were only a few diners, and Peter, Libby, Ben and stage manager Tom had their favourite table in the window.

  ‘So that’s it, then.’ Peter leant back in his chair and picked up his glass of red wine. Libby topped hers up.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s the script. And I want to be in it.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Tom, ‘and I don’t see how I can and stage manage.’

  ‘He ought to be Dame again, Pete,’ said Libby. ‘He was fantastic last year.’

  ‘And Bob and Baz as the double act again,’ said Ben.

  ‘So who’ll be stage manager?’ asked Peter, looking harassed.

  ‘Trouble is,’ said Ben, ‘the only people who want to do it aren’t experienced enough, and we who are all want to be in it.’

  ‘I suppose you want to be in it too,’ Peter said gloomily.

  ‘If there’s a part for me,’ said Ben cheerfully. ‘Is there, Lib?’

  ‘There’s a couple you could go for,’ said Libby, ‘depending on the ages of the others in the cast.’

  ‘How about Tom and I overseeing design and build, then we’ll train one of the others up to SM for the run.’ Ben beamed round the table. ‘That would work, wouldn’t it?’

  There was a murmur of agreement, and Peter sighed. ‘OK. But what about di
rector?’

  ‘You,’ said Libby.

  Peter groaned. ‘I thought you might say that.’

  ‘Oh, come on Pete,’ said Ben, ‘You’ve thrown your weight about during the other productions. You could do it legitimately this time.’

  Peter scowled. ‘You can push family feeling just so far, you know,’ he said to his cousin. Ben grinned.

  ‘OK. What do we do about casting?’

  Further discussion about auditions and pre-casting took them to the end of the bottle and Harry’s assistant Donna was summoned with another. Harry appeared out of the kitchen and removed his apron.

  ‘Have I been co-opted for anything?’ he asked, pulling another chair up to the table.

  ‘You’re too busy every night, love,’ said Peter.

  ‘I can do the bar a couple of times, can’t I?’ said Harry. ‘I did it for The Hop Pickers and Jack and the Beanstalk.’

  ‘If you’re free,’ said Peter. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How’s Fran?’ asked Harry. ‘I thought of her today when I saw that item about the body at Nethergate.’

  ‘We were there,’ said Libby proudly. The other faces round the table looked at her in horror and spoke with one voice.

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Libby crossly. ‘Not involved. We couldn’t help it. Fran lives on Harbour Street and all the police and everything were down by The Sloop only fifteen yards away. Guy was there, too.’

  ‘So what was it all about, then?’ asked Tom. ‘I haven’t listened to the radio and I didn’t have time to watch the news before I came out.’

  ‘A body was found on that island in the middle of the bay,’ said Harry. ‘The police think it was dumped, apparently, and that it could be an illegal.’

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Libby. ‘Illegal immigrant, you mean?’

  ‘It was on the news this evening. I have the radio on in the kitchen.’

  ‘One of those poor buggers that try to get in through the tunnel, I suppose,’ said Ben.

  ‘A bit far round for him, then, isn’t it?’ said Tom. ‘The tide might carry him if he’d fallen off a boat, but how did he get all the way across Kent from Folkestone if he came by tunnel?’

  ‘All I know is they think it was dumped,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t blame me.’

  ‘And don’t worry about me,’ said Libby, looking virtuous. ‘Fran and I won’t be involved this time.’

  Fran was watering the pots in her tiny yard outside the back door the following morning when she heard a knock at the front. Leaving Balzac, her beautiful black and white long haired cat, to investigate the watering can, she went inside, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  ‘Mrs Castle?’ The young woman on the doorstep was small, slight and brown haired. Little brown mouse, thought Fran.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Jane Maurice from the Nethergate Mercury.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I wondered if you’d been invited by the local police to investigate the – um – murder that was discovered yesterday?’

  ‘Murder? Yesterday?’

  ‘You’ll have heard it or seen it on the news? And it was in the Mercury this morning.’

  ‘I don’t take the Mercury,’ said Fran, ‘and if you mean the body discovered on the island yesterday, I didn’t know it was murdered.’

  ‘The police think it might be,’ said Jane Maurice. ‘That’s why I thought they might have consulted you.’ She was fidgeting now, obviously having expected to be invited inside. But Fran was having none of it.

  ‘I can’t think why anyone should have consulted me, especially about a body.’ She made as if to close the door. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me –’

  ‘But Mrs Castle –’ began Jane, trying to step forward.

  ‘Thank you, Miss – er. Goodbye.’ Fran closed the door and leaned back on it, her heart thumping. How had that happened?

  She went slowly back to the yard, where Balzac greeted her with a chirrup. It was that last case, she thought, bending to stroke his head. Her part in it had been discovered by the local paper and her name had appeared more than once as “Inspector Connell’s special investigator”. Neither of them had confirmed it, and eventually, the paper had stopped including her. But they remembered, obviously.

  As a reluctant psychic, Fran had been useful to the local police force once or twice, with a certain amount of help from an over-excitable Libby, but she wasn’t comfortable with any of it. Libby would have had them setting up a psychic detective agency if she’d had her way, but Fran just wanted to be an ordinary person in an ordinary house now that she had Coastguard Cottage. Besides, one of her children was due to visit this weekend, complete with censorious husband, and she didn’t think they would approve of anything even slightly out of the ordinary.

  ‘Did you see that item on the news last night?’ said Libby later, on the phone. ‘Harry said that on the radio they said it was an illegal immigrant.’

  ‘Yes, and I had a reporter round here this morning.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Some girl from the local paper came round to ask me if I’d been consulted by the police.’

  ‘Oooh!’ said Libby. ‘You’re famous!’

  ‘Oh, stop it, Libby. You know I’ve never wanted any of this. You’re the one who always wants to go charging in to investigate things.’

  ‘If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be living here, would you?’

  ‘I’d still have Coastguard Cottage.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t know the rest of us. Or Guy.’

  ‘Once I was living six doors down from him, I expect I might have met him,’ said Fran. ‘He said he’d have wangled an introduction somehow.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve talked about it?’

  ‘Of course. I admit that my – er – involvement with you and Ben has somewhat changed my life, but I think Guy and I would have met anyway.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘So what did you say to this reporter? Did you tell her we’d actually been on the spot?’

  ‘No, of course not. And don’t you go getting in touch with her, either.’

  ‘No, I won’t. Anyway, what I really rang up about was the panto. Did you mean it when you said you’d do props?’

  When Fran rang off, she went to the window to look down Harbour Street towards The Sloop. The sky was greyer today, and both the Dolphin and the Sparkler were still moored up. She could see the two old boat owners, George and Bert, sitting outside The Blue Anchor, but no one else was around, which was odd for high summer. She wondered vaguely if perhaps Harbour Street had been blue-taped by the police, and was just going to open her door to look and see when there was a knock.

  A tall young man dressed rather like a central casting geography teacher stood outside holding a briefcase.

  ‘Mrs Castle?’ he said, stepping forward before she could block the way. ‘Good afternoon. I’m from Kent and Coast Television, and I wondered if you would consider undertaking a psychic investigation into the body on Dragon Island on our behalf?’

  Fran felt sweat break out along her hairline.

  ‘I don’t do that sort of thing,’ she said.

  The reporter looked down his nose at her. ‘According to the reports, you do.’

  ‘What reports?’ Fran pulled herself together.

  He smiled. ‘From the Nethergate Mercury, for one. It’s quite well documented that you’ve helped the police on at least one occasion.’

  ‘And I don’t intend to do it again.’ Fran closed her lips tightly together.

  The reporter leaned nearer with a smile. ‘Come on, Mrs Castle. This would be great publicity for you. And of course, we wouldn’t expect you to do it for nothing.’

  ‘Publicity?’ Fran recoiled in horror. ‘What on earth would I want publicity for?’

  The reporter frowned. ‘Your job?’ he said.

  ‘My job? I don’t have a job.’

  He looked confused for a moment, but rallied.
That was his job, of course.

  ‘I was told that you did this for a living.’

  ‘I what? Where on earth did you get that from?’

  ‘Like the police, I have to protect my sources.’ He smiled again, but less convincingly.

  ‘Well, whoever they were,’ Fran paused, tellingly, ‘Jane Maurice was wrong. I live here, on my own –’ damn, she shouldn’t have said that ‘– and I don’t have a job, unless you count helping in the art gallery along the road. I’ve given my opinion to the local police on occasion, but that’s it. And now I’d like you to leave.’

  The reporter looked stunned. Fran stood up. ‘Please?’ she said.

  Slowly, he stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We really seem to have messed up this time.’ He held out his hand. ‘No hard feelings? I assure you, we were acting from the best of intentions.’

  Feeling guilty, Fran took his hand briefly. He wasn’t so unpleasant really.

  ‘Which were?’ she asked.

  ‘The intentions? Well, we thought maybe you could identify the victim –’

  ‘He’s an illegal immigrant.’

  ‘Sorry, yes, but they don’t know where he came from. Just that he appears to be.’

  ‘That police investigation is ongoing, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but –’

  ‘You thought I might help you steal a march on them?’

  ‘And prove that people like you are genuine.’

  Fran sniffed. ‘There are television programmes that try and do that,’ she said.

  ‘And no one believes them,’ said the reporter, triumphantly. ‘This would have been a genuine, news programme investigation.’ His eyes registered shock as he uttered the final damning words.

  Fran was amused. ‘Into me.’

  He lifted his shoulders in resignation and bent to pick up his briefcase. ‘You’ve got me there,’ he said, and shook her hand again. ‘You wouldn’t like to come and work for us, would you? You’d make a great investigative reporter.’

  Fran laughed, relaxing at last. ‘Maybe that would be interesting,’ she said, ‘but, to be honest, I’m a bit shy. I don’t really like meeting new people.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Castle, and I’m really sorry to have bothered you.’ He went past her towards the door.