Murder Most Fowl Page 3

  ‘Ah.’ Libby was relieved. ‘I’d still better give her a ring. Not fair not to.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Hetty, when Libby had explained. ‘What do you want me to do with him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby, taken aback. ‘We’ll have to wait until the police tell us, I suppose.’

  ‘Did she sound pleased?’ asked Ben when Libby ended the call.

  ‘I’m not sure. Not pleased, exactly…’ Libby stared out of the window at the grey and brown winter’s day. As bleak as her mood now was.

  Hetty, Libby was surprised to see, was standing waiting for them at the front door of the Manor. Ben opened the tailgate of the Range Rover and the dog obediently jumped out. Libby was there to meet him.

  Hetty nodded approvingly. ‘Well trained.’ She stood still and held out a hand. The dog, pressed to Libby’s leg, moved tentatively forward. Libby moved with him. No one spoke. At last, the dog reached Hetty and sniffed her hand. And lay down at her feet. Hetty smiled and nodded, clicked her fingers and went inside. The dog got up and followed.

  Libby gave Ben an astonished look. ‘What happened there?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘She’s always been like that.’

  ‘So why didn’t you want us to bring the dog here?’

  ‘Because she’ll get attached.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby followed her mother-in-law-elect into the house and down the passage to the huge kitchen. The radio played softly on the dresser, the Aga door was open to show the glowing coals inside, and the dog lay peacefully in front of it, while Hetty poured boiling water from the huge kettle into the old brown teapot. Ben fetched mugs and Libby retrieved milk from the larder.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Hetty when they all sat at the enormous table.

  Libby explained what had happened until the officers had phoned Ian Connell. ‘And I don’t know what he said,’ she concluded.

  ‘He said “What has she done now?”’ continued Ben with a grin. ‘He then said he’d had a phone call from some officers at a crime scene which had been phoned in by a Mrs Sarjeant, who wanted to call her partner and said that he could vouch for her. Which, of course, he did, then called me.’

  ‘And that’s all we know,’ said Libby.

  Hetty nodded. ‘What about him? And why were you there?’

  ‘You mean the dog? He was just there in this deserted building, which was in a deserted farmyard,’ said Libby. ‘And I’d gone there to try and buy a replacement turkey after a phone call from some bloke who said he’d got a couple.’

  ‘And how did he get your number?’

  ‘Um… he said he was from one of the farms I’d got in touch with on the internet. Only when I got there, it didn’t seem to be a farm at all.’

  ‘Oh, I think it was,’ said Ben. ‘At least, it had been. Just abandoned. Which makes me wonder why there was a website.’

  ‘What’s it called?’ asked Hetty.

  ‘Cheevles, near Cherry Ashton.’

  Hetty looked thoughtful. ‘Sheep,’ she said.

  ‘Sheep?’ echoed Libby.

  ‘Bit of arable.’

  Libby looked at Ben. ‘She knew them?’

  ‘Did Dad know Cheevles, Mum?’

  ‘Course ’e did. Cheevles… let me see.’ She thought for a moment more. ‘Old Bill Thompson. Sold up years ago.’

  ‘You don’t know who to?’ asked Ben. ‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’

  ‘Course not. Tell you who might. Your landlord.’

  ‘Landlord?’ Ben frowned.

  ‘You mean Tim?’ said Libby.

  “Ad a pub over there, didn’t ‘e?’

  ‘So he did!’ said Ben. ‘But it was right over on the Sussex border. Nowhere near Cherry Ashton.’

  ‘Not that far,’ shrugged Hetty.

  ‘It is very marsh-like out there,’ said Libby. ‘And Creekmarsh isn’t far away, either.’

  ‘So Rover here is a sheepdog?’ said Ben, looking across at the dog who lay still, head on paws, but eyes and ears alert.

  ‘We don’t know who he belongs to,’ said Libby. ‘Did he come with the – er – with the body? Or was he already at the farm?’

  ‘But the farm looked deserted. He must have come with the body,’ said Ben. ‘Which explains why he was so nervous. If the attacker went for him, too…’

  ‘Or did he go for the attacker?’ said Libby, her eyes wide.

  Hetty looked thoughtfully at the dog. ‘Loyal, they are, sheepdogs. And outdoor dogs an’ all.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like an outdoor dog,’ said Libby dubiously.

  ‘I expect the police will find out more,’ said Ben. ‘Meanwhile, we ought to go and tell Bob what’s happened. Will you be all right with Rover, Mum?’

  ‘See what happens when Libby tries to leave,’ said Hetty.

  But the dog, although he raised his head and whined, just once, made no other protest.

  ‘After we’ve seen Bob,’ said Ben, as they walked down the drive, ‘I vote we go and have a stiffener at the pub. We can ask Tim if he remembers anything about the farm.’

  ‘It’s a long shot,’ said Libby. ‘But I suppose we could.’

  Bob was closing his shop early, as he usually did on a Monday afternoon, despite it being near Christmas. He waved and opened the door.

  ‘I know,’ he said before either of them could speak. ‘Cheevles. The police called me for the name of the turkey breeder.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Ben. ‘Do I know them?’

  ‘Wentworth Turkeys. Not far north of Cheevles, actually, but into the Marsh proper.’

  ‘Oh – I looked at them,’ said Libby. ‘I was going on to see them if Cheevles didn’t work out.’

  ‘They haven’t got much left, although they could probably dig you out a small one – don’t know about a Bronze, though,’ said Bob. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Libby related her morning’s adventures, finishing up with their intention of going to ask Tim at the pub what, if anything, he knew about Cheevles.

  ‘Used to belong to old Bill Thompson. Sheep, mainly.’

  ‘Come and have a drink with us, Bob,’ said Ben. ‘We could all do with one.’

  ‘Did you know Bill Thompson?’ asked Libby, as Bob locked his door behind him.

  ‘I met him, but I didn’t really know him. My dad did, when he had the shop. Bought his lamb.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any sheep out there when I’ve been that way,’ said Libby.

  ‘No, you have to go further into the Marsh,’ said Bob. ‘Thompson’s place was on the edge. Although there’s sheep most places in Kent.’

  Tim looked surprised to see them.

  ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’

  Ben explained. Tim gave Libby a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. ‘Done it again, have you, Libby?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you start,’ said Libby with a sigh.

  ‘What we wanted to ask you was if you knew anything about the farm where Libby found – um –-’

  ‘The body,’ said Libby. ‘Not really near where your pub was, but…’

  ‘What was it called?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Cheevles.’

  ‘Oh, Cheevles! Yes, I know it. Well – knew it.’ Tim pulled himself a pint and leant on the bar. ‘This was several years ago, mind. Before we went to Dungate. Old Bill Thompson owned it.’

  ‘We know,’ chorused Libby, Ben and Bob.

  Tim grinned. ‘Well, he sold it and some consortium bought it. Locals weren’t pleased. Sheep all went, and they were going to turn it into some huge mechanised business, although I don’t know what. Then it was going to be a solar farm, then a wind farm. In the end I don’t know what happened to it.’

  Libby frowned. ‘So it definitely shouldn’t have had a website saying it sold turkeys?’

  ‘Might have, I suppose.’ said Tim. ‘I don’t know what it’s been doing recently, but last I heard it was empty.’

  ‘Do you still keep in touch with your old pub? What was it called?’ asked Libby.

&nb
sp; ‘The Owler. Yes. Same as I keep in touch with The Dolphin.’

  ‘Hub of the universe, in fact,’ said Ben with a grin.

  ‘Local branch of the Licensed Victuallers,’ said Tim. ‘Great network.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s empty now,’ said Libby. ‘and I expect the police have found out who owns it. I don’t know why they’ve got a false website, though.’

  ‘To do mail order business?’ said Bob. ‘Or phone orders. I phone my orders through to Wentworth. You phoned them, did you, Lib?’

  ‘Yes, I phoned the landline number. It went straight to answerphone. And the guy who called me back was obviously on a mobile. It didn’t show up as the same number.’

  ‘So he might have been working on his own?’ said Bob.

  ‘Must have been,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think he had the turkeys there? I asked if I could come and see them, and he said yes, so I suppose he must have done.’

  ‘The police will have found them if he did,’ said Ben. ‘Do you think they’ll tell us?’

  ‘Well, they’ve got to talk to us again – me, anyway – to take my statement. And I’ve got to pick up my car.’

  Tim came back after serving another customer in the other bar.

  ‘Right – The Owler. Want me to give ‘em a ring? Ask if anyone knows anything about Cheevles?’

  ‘Would you?’ said Libby. ‘If it isn’t too much trouble…’

  ‘Go on with you!’ Tim gave her a friendly pat on the cheek. ‘If it wasn’t Christmas week I’d drive you over there, like I did last time.’

  ‘If it wasn’t Christmas week I’d say yes,’ said Libby with a grin.

  ‘If it wasn’t Christmas week we wouldn’t be in this situation,’ remarked Ben.

  Bob finished his drink. ‘I’d better get off. We’re rehearsing tonight, aren’t we? So the missus’ll be doing an early dinner.’

  ‘I’ll keep you posted if we hear anything,’ said Ben.

  ‘See you later,’ said Libby.

  Tim arrived back at the bar as Bob left.

  ‘The boss was out, but I spoke to his afternoon relief,’ he said. ‘He didn’t know much about Cheevles, but said he’d ask the boss later.’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better get off, too. We’ll pop in after rehearsal later.’

  ‘Not much further forward,’ said Ben as they walked home. ‘We just wait.’

  ‘And look for another turkey,’ said Libby gloomily.

  After throwing together a chilli con carne, Libby called Fran and brought her up to date.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I suppose we wait.’

  ‘What about your car? Don’t you need it this week? Or have you finished your Christmas shopping?’

  Libby sighed. ‘No, of course I haven’t. There’s all the food shopping to finish – the fresh veg and so on.’

  ‘But you’ll get that from Nella’s farm shop in the high street. You don’t need the car for that.’

  ‘I’m supposed to pick up Hetty’s big order from the Cattlegreen main nursery, though.’

  ‘Well, how about I come over and pick you up on my way to Canterbury and drop you off to pick up your car on the way home?’

  ‘Really? Have you got shopping still to do, too? That’s not like you – you’re always so organised.’

  Fran laughed. ‘Me? Never! Anyway, I need to get Guy’s present. I can collect you about ten tomorrow, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks, Fran. Now I’d better go and see to the chilli.’

  Ben told the assembled panto cast members that evening what had happened that day, and craved their indulgence for any frailty that may appear in their leader. There was a scornful reaction to this, as Libby had expected, and she grinned as she took Ben’s place in front of them

  ‘And, as you no doubt realised, if you believe that, you’ll believe anything. So let’s get on and carry on from where we left off on Friday.’

  After rehearsal, as usual, Ben and Libby were last to leave. Peter had been helping Harry in the restaurant as he was open on Mondays throughout December, but agreed to drag Harry along to the pub as soon as he could get away.

  They were met by an excited Bob, who had been first to leave.

  ‘The wife called – the police have been on the phone, and guess what? They found my turkeys in that farm!’

  ‘That’s fabulous, Bob! But will they let you have them back?’

  Bob’s face fell. ‘No, they won’t – they say they’re evidence. And anyway, they haven’t been kept in very good conditions. But at least I can claim on the insurance now.’

  ‘Good job I didn’t buy one, then,’ said Libby.

  ‘Lib,’ called Ben from the bar, ‘Tim got a phone call, too.’

  Libby hurried over. ‘From your old pub?’

  ‘Yeah – Martin, the new owner. I say new – he bought it from me when I went to The Dolphin… how many years ago?’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘It’s been empty for some time – but you knew that, didn’t you? – and there’ve been rumours from time to time. The most recent was that it was haunted.’

  ‘Haunted!’ said Ben and Libby together.

  ‘By owlers,’ said Tim with a grin. ‘They’re all over the Marsh, jingling the ponies’ harnesses.’

  ‘Owlers?’ asked somebody behind them. ‘Trained owls?’

  ‘Wool smugglers,’ said Libby. ‘Wool out, brandy and baccy in. They muffled the ponies’ hooves with sacking to keep them quiet, and stored goods everywhere – in barns, churches --’

  ‘Churches?’

  ‘Oh, yes – the vicars were always in on it,’ said Ben. ‘Haven’t you heard of Thorndike’s Dr Syn? And you a Man of Kent!’

  The questioner smiled sheepishly and retired.

  ‘Anyway,’ went on Tim, ‘a couple of people turned up with scary stories, and it spread.’

  ‘And as usual with stories like this, there was some truth in it, I suppose?’ said Libby.

  ‘Activity at night, that sort of thing,’ said Tim, turning away to serve someone else.

  ‘Surprising that it was discussed in a pub so far away,’ said Ben, as they took their drinks over to where Bob sat with the principal boy and girl.

  ‘Not that far,’ said Libby. ‘It looked to me as though the nearest apart from that is the Ashton Arms.’

  ‘And it’s not far from that barn that belonged to White Lodge,’ said Ben.

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Libby, shuddering. ‘That’s an adventure I certainly don’t remember with any fondness.’

  ‘Even though that’s when you first met the redoubtable Rosie?’ said Ben with a grin.

  ‘I don’t want to remember Rosie much, either,’ said Libby, grinning back.

  ‘Is that the novelist who came to stay in Steeple Farm that time?’ asked Bob.

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Libby.

  ‘Fancied herself as a bit of a femme fatale, didn’t she?’

  ‘She did,’ said Ben. ‘We keep her at arm’s length, now.’

  ‘Anyway, Fran’s taking me to pick up my car tomorrow,’ said Libby. ‘We might hear something then.’

  ‘If there’s anybody on site,’ said Ben. ‘If they’ve found the turkeys there’s already been a thorough search, so they may have pulled everyone off site by now.’

  Fran had just arrived to pick Libby up the following morning when an officer appeared on the doorstep to take her statement.

  ‘I wish you’d warned me in advance,’ grumbled Libby. ‘I was just going out.’

  ‘Sorry, madam,’ said the officer, looking not in the least apologetic. ‘Won’t take long.’

  Resigned, Libby and Fran retreated to the living room and sat down. Indeed, it didn’t take long, and to Libby’s relief, didn’t contain any questions she found difficult to answer. When the officer closed his notebook – no tablet? thought Libby – she asked, ‘Can I pick my car up today?’

  ‘Your c
ar, madam?’

  ‘My partner came to pick me up as I was rather shocked, and I left my car at the farmyard.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I’m sure that will be all right. There is a presence there, still, so take some ID.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Libby stood up. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  Five minutes later, she and Fran were on the way to Canterbury.

  ‘Hit the shops then lunch?’ said Libby.

  ‘Sounds about right. Do you want to see if there are any turkeys in the supermarkets?’

  ‘Might as well, but on the other hand, it would have to stay in the car all day. Not a good idea.’

  In the end, they spent a good deal of time in the department stores before descending on their favourite backstreet pub for lunch, after which they returned to Fran’s car and made for Cheevles Farm. Fran shivered as they drove along the lonely lane from Cherry Ashton.

  ‘It’s so eerie out here.’

  ‘Yes – you can understand the rumours about haunting, can’t you?’ said Libby.

  ‘Haunting?’

  ‘Since it’s been empty, apparently. Tim at the pub said the owner of his old pub had heard the rumours from his regulars.’

  ‘Sounds like something manufactured to keep people away,’ said Fran. ‘Is this it?’

  ‘You mean the one with all the police tape?’ said Libby, amused. ‘That’s the one. I’ll get out here and go and see if there’s anyone there.’

  In fact, she found two plain clothes officers, apparently aimlessly wandering around the yard.

  ‘Can I take my car?’ she called, as soon as she was within hailing distance.

  ‘Who are you?’ The nearest officer, tall, slim and wearing an elegant pinstriped suit, came towards her.

  ‘Libby Sarjeant.’ Libby pointed. ‘That’s my car. Who are you?’

  The officer looked taken aback. ‘DC Roberts. Got any ID?’

  Libby dug in her purse for her driving licence. ‘You did know I was coming?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Roberts peered at the licence. ‘Has your statement been taken?’

  ‘Yes, this morning. Have you found anything except the turkeys?’

  Once again, the officer looked startled. ‘How did you know that?’

  Libby was tempted to wave senior officers under his nose, so to speak, but decided to tell the truth. ‘The butcher who was the intended purchaser told me. Have you?’