Murder and the Glovemaker's Son Page 3

  ‘Haven’t you told anyone yet?’ said Libby, shocked. ‘But we open -’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ came back the testy reply. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Mrs Sarjeant -’

  They all turned towards him, and most drew pad, paper or tablet towards them. At his obvious dismissal, Libby tightened her lips, swung round on her heel and marched out of the hall.

  ‘Libby – wait!’ Tristan called breathlessly, as he ran to catch up. ‘I’m sorry. That was rude of them.’

  Libby stopped and faced him. ‘I’ll say it was! I’ve a good mind to tell the real story. I’ve got contacts in the media.’ She omitted the fact that those contacts were only local TV and newspapers.

  Tristan paled. ‘No – please don’t do that. I’m in enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘You are? Why?’

  ‘I’m the one who persuaded them to put on the tour, on the back of the letter.’

  ‘I thought they were going to do it anyway?’

  ‘It was being discussed, but when I came to them with the story of the letter and we found an actual theatre in Steeple Martin – well, that was it! I’m only a small part of the PR department. I don’t carry much weight, and if anything else goes wrong, I’m for the high jump.’

  ‘Well, all right,’ said Libby grudgingly, knowing she wouldn’t have done anything of the sort, ‘but you can go in there and tell them I’m surprised and disappointed at their attitude, and, unless it improves, I can easily shut down this week’s performance on the basis that it was booked under false pretences.’

  Tristan stared at her in horror. ‘Oh, Libby!’

  ‘Look, Tristan. I’m as shocked at the whole turn of events as you are, but at least I’ve tried to ameliorate the effect. I have no need to, and the terms of our contract with National Shakespeare allow me to cancel the production. Which would bring even more disapprobation down on your collective heads. Just tell them.’

  She turned on her heel and continued her march back down Maltby Close. She was going to have to admit to herself that whether National Shakespeare wanted to go further in revealing Steeple Martin’s links with Elizabethan spies, she was extremely keen to find out – not only about Titus Watt being a rival, or colleague, of John Dee, but about what he did and his ownership of the Manor. And if it really was the Manor of Quinton St Martin.

  She looked into the pub, but the lounge bar was empty.

  ‘Gone up to his room,’ said Tim over the bar. ‘Said a friend was coming to collect him.’

  ‘Oh, right. I’ll just give him a quick ring.’ But before she could, Gilbert appeared in the doorway, beaming.

  ‘Libby! I can call you Libby, can’t I?’

  ‘Of course. Is Andrew coming to pick you up?’

  ‘Yes, he is, and taking me back to his flat for dinner. He says we can do a good deal of research online.’ Gilbert looked excited. ‘I must say I haven’t bothered much since I retired, but this might have whetted my appetite.’

  Libby grinned. ‘Good for you. So a disaster might have a silver lining?’

  ‘Maybe. What did the Shakespeare people say?’

  ‘They’re discussing exactly what to do,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I can.’

  Outside the pub, Libby hesitated. Go home, or go up to the Manor and impart the news? The Manor won.

  As Libby pushed open the heavy oak door, she was met with a restrained welcome by Jeff-dog, Hetty’s latest acquisition, a rescued border collie. As Libby herself had rescued him, Jeff-dog and Libby had a special relationship, although he remained firmly Hetty’s dog. Libby bent down to rub his ears.

  ‘Come on, boy. Where’s Hetty?’

  Jeff-dog turned and trotted towards Hetty’s own sitting room, pushing the door open with his nose. Hetty, in the big armchair in front of her gas fire, looked up.

  ‘Gal,’ she said in some surprise. ‘Want tea?’

  ‘Not just now, Hetty.’ Libby perched on the footstool. ‘I’ve got news.’

  Hetty’s eyebrows rose. ‘Told Ben?’

  ‘Not yet. Shall I get him? It concerns the house.’

  ‘Go on then.’ She stood up. ‘Even if you don’t want tea, I do. In the kitchen when you’re ready.’ She and Jeff-dog went off towards the kitchen and Libby went back out the front door towards the new micro-brewery, situated in the old barn behind the house. Ben, heavy apron over his jeans and shirt, was lovingly polishing one of the huge tanks.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said. Ben turned and grinned.

  ‘That’s all right – happy to be interrupted. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ He took off the apron and walked towards her.

  ‘I’ve got some news.’ Libby frowned. ‘I think it’s quite exciting, but it’s... well, just let’s say I don’t know what you and Hetty will think.’

  ‘Hetty and me?’ Ben let them out of the barn and turned to lock the door. ‘What’s it got to do with us?’

  ‘Let’s go into the kitchen so I can tell you both together.’ Libby led the way into the big room where Hetty was filling the brown teapot from the old fashioned kettle.

  ‘You see,’ she said, sitting down at the table, ‘it’s to do with the house. This house. It belonged to someone famous.’

  Chapter Four

  Hetty and Ben both frowned.

  ‘Famous? Not since our family have owned it,’ said Ben.

  ‘Well, no, obviously. And when was that? That it came into the family?’

  ‘Last century,’ said Hetty.

  Ben grinned at his mother. ‘Century before last, Mum. You haven’t caught up yet.’ He turned back to Libby. ‘Around 1850, as far as I remember. I’ll look it up. It’ll be in our records. So it must have been before that?’

  ‘Well before,’ said Libby a little smugly. ‘Sixteenth century.’ And she repeated the story Gilbert had told her.

  ‘Why have we never heard about this?’ asked Ben when she’d finished.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Libby. ‘Did your nineteenth-century ancestors never look into the history of the house?’

  ‘Can’t have done, can they?’ He gazed round the kitchen. ‘It’s obviously been considerably altered since then. Do you think we ought to get one of those archaeological architects in?’

  ‘The building people? If you can afford it, perhaps. They might find something hidden away, mightn’t they? Think of what we found at Dark House that time.’

  ‘And what was his name? Edward? And then there was Lewis’s place.’

  ‘Creekmarsh, yes. Well, Andrew’s taken this Gilbert back to his flat for dinner and research, and they’ll go and trawl the county archives tomorrow if they can’t find anything online. You see, it would add tremendously to the publicity for the play. Might make up for losing the letter.’

  ‘Which,’ Ben mused, ‘when you think of it, was directly responsible for this discovery.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Libby. ‘Hetty? What do you think? You haven’t said anything yet.’

  Hetty looked amused. ‘Don’t need to, gal. You two can say it all. Not my – what d’you call it – ancestral home, is it? Just my home.’

  Ben looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘No need to be sorry, son.’ Hetty patted his hand. ‘You done more to keep the house going than I ever could. Your dad was proud of you.’

  Ben ducked his head and looked more uncomfortable than ever. Libby rescued him.

  ‘Anyway, perhaps we could ask Andrew to come and look round here? And perhaps this Gilbert, too? If you both think it would be all right?’

  ‘Andrew, yes,’ said Ben. ‘Mum and I don’t know this Gilbert. And what about Edward? He’s down here somewhere, isn’t it he?’

  ‘Gilbert’s speciality is the Elizabethan period, and he knows a lot about Shakespeare and John Dee. And about Mortlake, Dee’s old house, so he’d know what to look for.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ben looked at his mother. ‘What do you think, Mum?’

  Hetty shrugged. ‘Your bu
siness, duck. As long as they don’t go poking around my things in my rooms.’

  ‘They might want to look at the walls, Mum.’

  ‘Walls are all right. Go on, gal, you ask ’em.’

  Libby looked at Ben, who nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Why don’t you want them to come?’

  ‘It’s not that...’ Ben stood up and moved restlessly round the table. ‘It just seems as though we’d be getting into something too big for us.’

  Hetty and Libby watched him in silence.

  ‘It might take over. You know what the Shakespeare industry is like. There could be a frenzy.’

  Libby nodded slowly. ‘But we’re not talking about Shakespeare, here, we’re talking about a sixteenth-century wizard, astronomer and spy. Well, possible spy.’

  ‘And the minute someone who’s heard the tales of Shakespeare also possibly being a spy hears this, it’ll all kick off.’ Ben sighed. ‘Could we keep a lid on it?’

  ‘Not if The Glover’s Men want to use it as publicity.’

  ‘But what exactly do they want to use?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ hedged Libby. ‘We’d better wait and see what they say.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes until Libby’s mobile rang and made them all jump..

  ‘It’s Andrew, Libby,’ said an excited voice. ‘And yes, it was Titus Watt’s house. No mention of Shakespeare ever going there, but there’s quite definite documentation of Watt, and a veiled mention of something to do with the Queen. Not easy to decipher at the moment, though.’

  ‘Right.’ Libby glanced at Ben. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I thought you could pass on the message to your Shakespeare friends in case it’ll help. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, as long as you’ve properly authenticated it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite definite. But, as I say, no Shakespearean references.’

  ‘OK, thanks, Andrew. I’ll pass it on. Oh, and would you like to pop in to the Manor for tea when you bring Gilbert back?’

  ‘He’s staying for dinner,’ said Andrew. ‘Won’t it be too late when we get back?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Libby thought for a second. ‘Well, how about Ben and I meet you in the pub when you drop him off? It won’t take a minute. Is he enjoying himself?’

  ‘We both are,’ said Andrew, the grin sounding in his voice. ‘See you later.’

  Libby relayed the conversation to Ben and Hetty. Hetty looked satisfied, Ben slightly worried. Libby sighed and stood up.

  ‘Come on, Ben, let’s go and get something for dinner. We can talk about it. Besides, I’ve got to let National Shakespeare know.’

  ‘Why not tell that Tristan lad?’ said Hetty. ‘His job.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby was surprised. ‘Yes – good idea. Thanks for the tea, Hetty. We’ll keep you posted.’

  Ben went back to the micro-brewery to lock up while Libby went on ahead. Just as she came out on to the high street, Tristan appeared from Maltby Close and waved. Libby stopped.

  ‘Did you tell them?’ she asked as he crossed the road towards her.

  ‘Yes.’ He turned a little pink. ‘They blustered a bit, and then apologised. They asked if you would let them know if this wizard person was definite, and decided they could use an aspect for publicity.’

  ‘Good – well, as it has been confirmed, yes, they can. But do not allow them to link Shakespeare to the house. There’s no evidence whatsoever that he visited, and there wasn’t a theatre here then, anyway. I think I’d like to see the PR piece before it goes out if you don’t mind.’

  Tristan looked dubious. ‘I don’t know...’

  Libby adopted her best schoolmarm tones. ‘It wasn’t a request. If the slightest hint of anything – unfortunate – appears, I shall cancel the production.’

  Tristan nodded unhappily.

  Ben joined them at that moment and looked quizzically at the younger man.

  ‘I’ve told him what he can and can’t do,’ said Libby briskly, ‘and asked for approval on whatever they put out. Or else,’ she added to Tristan, who grinned weakly.

  ‘They’ll turn the whole theft and disappearance to their advantage,’ said Libby as they continued home.

  ‘Strictly speaking, it isn’t theft,’ said Ben. ‘The chap who removed it is the rightful owner.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Libby thoughtfully.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Ben. ‘The V&A would have checked the provenance that far. But it does make you wonder who did it. Was it the uncle? Who had it first?’

  ‘I don’t know, and frankly, I’m a bit sick of it, now. Let’s get some dinner.’

  Between them they concocted a meal, which they ate in front of the news, then Libby called Fran to keep her up to date.

  ‘And you’re going to see Andrew and this Gilbert later?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Well, we missed our usual Wednesday night in the pub yesterday, didn’t we? I thought perhaps Guy and I could come up and meet you in the pub.’

  ‘Good idea!’ said Libby, and called out to Ben, who stuck his head round the kitchen door and put his thumb up. ‘Yes, that’s OK. We’ll wander down about eightish. See you then?’

  Libby and Ben had just arrived when the pub door opened and Fran, tall and dark-haired, compared to short and roundish Libby, came in followed by her husband. Like Ben’s, Guy’s hair was going grey, but oddly his neat goatee beard wasn’t. Libby always thought he looked like a slightly mischievous satyr.

  When Ben had provided them all with drinks, Fran started to ask questions.

  ‘When was the original enquiry made about the letter?’

  ‘To the V&A, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. By the first owner. An uncle, was it?’

  Libby frowned. ‘I think so, yes, but when it was I have no idea. Why?’

  ‘I mean, was it recent? If so, I can’t see why the nephew would have tried again.’

  ‘Good heavens, I don’t know! But yes, I suppose you’re right. Come to think of it, Gilbert is now retired, and he was actually working on it the first time round, so it must be a few years ago, at least.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Fran nodded. ‘I just wondered what prompted the nephew to try again.’

  ‘Money,’ suggested Guy. ‘He thought he might be able to sell it?’

  ‘But he didn’t offer to sell it to National Shakespeare. He was loaning it to them,’ said Ben.

  ‘To raise its profile,’ said Libby. ‘Must be. He knew they would make capital out of it, which they were – look at the interest it’s generated, and how worried they are now.’

  ‘Which is why he’s disappeared, taking the artefact with him. Which means he knew it was a fake,’ finished Fran.

  ‘I just hope they will manage to turn it to their advantage,’ said Libby. ‘They’re rather a grim lot on the committee. Tristan’s the only halfway human one. I don’t know if they’ll use this other information about the house.’

  ‘Yes, explain that,’ said Guy. ‘I didn’t really follow it when Fran told me.’

  Libby explained about the house and Titus Watt. ‘And we’re hoping Gilbert and Andrew will have managed to verify those facts when they come back here tonight.’

  ‘Quinton St Martin, eh?’ mused Guy, pursing his lips and stroking his beard. ‘That rings a bell.’

  ‘It does?’ The other three looked at him in surprise.

  ‘I’ve seen it somewhere. I can’t remember in what context, though.’

  ‘Well, with any luck, Andrew will tell us everything we want to know,’ said Libby, ‘although I think Gilbert probably knows as much, if not more, about the Elizabethan world of sorcery, or whatever it was.’

  ‘Astronomy, mathematics, alchemy and something called Hermetic Philosophy,’ said Fran. ‘I looked it up. It’s something about one true doctrine, but I didn’t really understand it.’

  ‘Was John Dee a practitioner?’

  Fran nodded.

  ‘I don’t see what tha
t has to do with Shakespeare, though,’ said Guy.

  ‘There was a suggestion that he was a spy, too, like John Dee,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t know much about it, but if you start looking into Elizabeth’s spies he comes up quite a bit.’

  ‘Didn’t she have the first proper spy network?’ asked Guy.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Libby, ‘but it was certainly a sophisticated one. Francis Walsingham and so on.’

  ‘And this Titus was one, too,’ said Ben. ‘Interesting. So there might be hints somewhere in the Manor – unless it’s been completely ripped about since that time.’

  ‘It makes you wonder,’ said Fran, ‘if this fake letter didn’t have something to do with the Manor, too. It was supposed to mention Steeple Martin, wasn’t it?’

  ‘But it shouldn’t have done,’ said Libby. ‘It would have been Quinton St Martin back then, or at least just St Martin. If that was the case, I’m not surprised it was thrown out. It would have been obvious.’

  ‘I don’t think it would have been that obvious,’ said Fran. ‘But it obviously connected with the village, or National Shakespeare wouldn’t have been so keen to bring the company here.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Tristan said in the first place. They were pleased to find a theatre here.’

  Behind them, the door swung open and Gilbert trotted in, beaming. Behind him, Andrew Wylie, equally trim and dapper, grinned round at the company.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ he said. ‘All together again, I see!’

  Ben stood up. ‘What can I get you gentlemen to drink?’

  ‘I’d say champagne except that Andrew has to drive back home again,’ said Gilbert. ‘But I feel like it!’

  ‘Is that good?’ asked Libby cautiously.

  ‘I’ll say it’s good,’ said Andrew. ‘Proof positive that Shakespeare came to Quinton St Martin!’

  Chapter Five

  ‘What?’ Libby’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Yes!’ Gilbert was rubbing his hands together and practically dancing on the spot. ‘You see -’

  ‘Wait until Ben gets back with the drinks,’ said Libby. ‘Then you won’t have to tell it twice.’