Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Read online

  Twenty minutes later, Fran was pulling up outside The Pink Geranium. Harry came to the door with a key and let them into the street door of the upstairs flat.

  ‘She’s fine. I sent her up lunch and wine, and Ben called her from the timber yard.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby. ‘I do feel guilty. Thank you so much, Hal.’

  She started up the stairs, followed by Fran, who had also been given shelter in this flat some years ago before she moved to Coastguard Cottage.

  ‘Cass – it’s me! I’m so sorry!’

  A tall woman with grey hair wound untidily round her head appeared at the top of the staircase. She grinned broadly.

  ‘I’m not in the least surprised, you daft bat! Come here and give me a hug.’

  Disentangling herself, Libby turned to Fran.

  ‘This is Fran Wolfe, Cass. You’ve heard me talk about her.’

  Cassandra held out her hand to Fran. ‘Indeed I have. And have you been out investigating? Harry tells me there’s a current murder.’

  Libby sighed, and perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘No, not really. Just being nosy. I’ll tell you all about it if you like. But what about coming home with me now for a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d like that, Lib, but I’m going to stay here over the weekend. Harry offered, and it will keep me out your way.’ She turned to Fran. ‘Are you coming for tea, too, Fran?’

  ‘I’ll give you both a lift,’ said Fran.

  With Libby still profusely apologising, Fran drove them the short distance to Allhallow’s Lane, where Sidney ignored both Libby and Fran and made a terrific fuss of Cassandra.

  ‘So you’ll go to this meeting after we’ve eaten with Harry?’ asked Cassandra, when Libby had finished explaining about the evening’s plans.

  ‘You can come with us, if you like,’ said Libby. ‘You haven’t seen the theatre since it was finished, have you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t your Sir Andrew mind?’

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t, would he, Fran?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘Really nice man. Not a bit starry.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to, if you’re sure,’ said Cassandra. ‘Wonderful actor, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is,’ agreed Libby.

  ‘How do you come to know him?’

  ‘He and Harry had a mutual friend who died recently,’ said Fran easily, while Libby floundered.

  ‘Matthew was a mutual friend of ours, too,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  Cassandra squinted at her cousin. ‘I sense there’s something you’re not telling me, but I won’t pry. Now, what are you working on at the moment?’

  ‘Working?’

  ‘Painting? You’re still painting, aren’t you?’

  ‘Er – well,’ said Libby guiltily.

  ‘She’s supposed to provide originals for sale in my husband’s little gallery in Nethergate, but she always seems to be behind,’ said Fran.

  ‘There’s always so much else to do,’ said Libby. ‘And they’re only potboilers, anyway.’

  ‘They sell,’ said Fran. ‘OK – not for millions, but they do sell.’

  ‘And people do like having an original on their walls,’ said Cassandra. ‘You’ll have to come up and paint my garden.’

  ‘Next summer?’ said Libby. ‘When it’s at its best?’

  ‘I was thinking of after Christmas and your panto,’ said Cassandra. ‘It looks lovely in winter.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ said Libby doubtfully. ‘Won’t it be cold?’

  Cassandra and Fran laughed.

  ‘You can see how devoted she is to her art,’ said Fran.

  ‘Theatre comes first, Lib, doesn’t it?’ said Cassandra. ‘And then murder investigations.’

  ‘Well, now …’ said Libby uncomfortably.

  ‘She can’t help herself,’ said Fran. ‘Even with this one, she had to go nosing round this morning, and it’s nothing to do with us at all.’

  ‘Do tell,’ said Cassandra, tucking her feet up under her. ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  Fran related the events of the morning.

  ‘Shott?’ said Cassandra thoughtfully. ‘That’s an unusual name. Is there a nursery there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby, surprised. ‘A playgroup, you mean?’

  ‘No, a plant nursery. I get things from there, and the owner is incredibly helpful.’

  ‘You’ve been down here without coming to see me?’

  ‘No, I get them by mail order. Of course I’d much prefer to buy them in person, but he’s one of the only suppliers of certain types of plant, and it’s too far just to pop down for an afternoon.’

  ‘You need to move down here,’ said Libby. ‘What’s keeping you in London? The kids aren’t there any more.’

  ‘But when they come to visit they can use me as a base and see other old friends,’ said Cassandra. ‘If I moved somewhere else they’d have to make a special Mum-only visit.’

  ‘How often do they come and see you?’ asked Fran. ‘One of mine lives in London, and I swear the only reason she comes to see me is to bring the children to the seaside.’

  ‘I go to them more often these days. I spend Christmas with one or other of them and their families. They come down once – maybe twice – a year.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Libby. ‘And you could get a lot for your money if you sold the Palmers Green house. You’d get at least … well, you’d get a lot, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cassandra. ‘I would miss the theatre and the ballet, and my gardening group.’

  ‘Well, think about it,’ said Libby. ‘I promise not to involve you in anything you don’t want if you do come.’ She grinned at Fran. ‘Would I?’

  Fran laughed and stood up. ‘I’d watch it, if I were you, Cassandra. Look, I must be going. Let me know what’s happening, won’t you?’

  ‘I will, but I don’t suppose much will happen tonight. Just a decision to cancel – or not. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’ Libby turned to Cassandra. ‘Shall Fran drop you off at the caff? And we’ll see you later.’

  Chapter Six

  Sir Andrew had opted to hold the meeting in the auditorium of the theatre and asked Peter, Ben and Libby to sit in the front row. He greeted Cassandra charmingly, then went to stand at the foyer doors to greet the rest of the visitors. A large man in tweeds was seated in the front row next to Peter, and introduced as Doctor Eric Robinson, the leader of the group. Libby, craning round to see who else had arrived, waved to Lewis and Edie who waved back and sat at the back of the auditorium.

  Eventually, Sir Andrew mounted the stage and his audience went silent.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you out again after last night, but in view of the circumstances, we have to discuss the advisability of continuing with your appearance in the Christmas Concert.

  ‘The dreadful murder of Vernon Bowling has already brought the media down on our heads, and I’d like to ask if any of you have been contacted today?’

  ‘I have.’ Lewis put his hand up. ‘Didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Thank you, Lewis, that would be inevitable as you were part of our promotional literature.’ A small guilty chuckle rippled through the audience. ‘Is Mr Stewart here? I would imagine they will have tried to get in touch with him also.’

  But it appeared that Screwball Stewart had not put in an appearance. Instead, Dr Robinson put up his hand.

  ‘Local paper and TV people got in touch with me. I didn’t say anything, either. Didn’t really know the man.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ asked Sir Andrew. ‘No? Well, in that case, I would ask you all not to say anything if you’re approached. But now we come to a rather indelicate subject. It could be said that the – ah – murder could bring a degree of notoriety and perhaps more interest in the concert.’

  ‘You mean – sell more tickets?’ asked someone.

  ‘I mean just that. However, this is a one night only event, and although I did ask if
the theatre was available –’ he glanced down at Libby with a smile, ‘– it isn’t. However, most of the other guest artistes who have agreed to perform couldn’t have given us another night anyway, so the question is moot. What you, as a group, have to decide is whether or not you feel you ought to continue.’

  There was a flurry of responses and, in the end, Dr Robinson climbed up on the stage beside Sir Andrew and held up his hand.

  ‘One at a time please,’ he said. ‘Now, Lewis?’

  ‘I think we should carry on,’ said Lewis. ‘If it’s appropriate, we could dedicate the performance to Vernon. Can’t see what we would gain by cancelling.’

  There was a murmur of approval, a woman held up a hand.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be disrespectful?’ she asked. ‘I mean – what would his wife think?’

  ‘Can’t see that,’ said another voice. ‘If he’d just – er – died, we wouldn’t cancel, would we? Isn’t as if we can’t do without him.’

  Shocked mutterings greeted this, but Dr Robinson spoke again.

  ‘That’s right. There are plenty of us, and it isn’t as if he was actor in a play who couldn’t be replaced, is it?’ He turned to Sir Andrew, who smiled ruefully.

  ‘Any actor can be replaced,’ he said, ‘but in this case I agree with you. And I don’t think it would be disrespectful at all. I’m sure, as they say, “That’s what he would have wanted”.’

  ‘So how about a show of hands?’ said Dr Robinson. ‘Those for continuing?’

  Most hands in the auditorium went up.

  ‘And against?’

  Three hands went up.

  ‘Thank you. If those of you who feel it would be disrespectful wish to withdraw from the concert, that’s fine, otherwise, motion carried. We go on.’

  To a smatter of polite applause, the doctor resumed his seat beside Peter.

  ‘Very well,’ said Sir Andrew, ‘and now we come to the management of the theatre.’ He looked down at Libby, Peter, and Ben. ‘How do you feel about it?’

  Ben looked first at Libby, then at Peter, and stood up.

  ‘We feel it would be a pity for the group not to perform. Locally, they’ve been a draw for their friends and family, and I think we might have to refund quite a lot of tickets if they withdrew.’

  Relieved laughter rang out and Sir Andrew smiled.

  ‘Thank you, Ben, that wasn’t an aspect I’d considered. So there you are, ladies and gentlemen. We carry on as before. Sorry to have dragged you out for what, happily, proved to be a short meeting, but I couldn’t take the risk of making decisions without all your support.’

  More polite applause, and Sir Andrew came off the stage to join Ben, Peter and Libby, who bounced up to take his place.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she called, ‘we are opening the bar in the foyer if you’d care to have a drink before you go home.’

  There was an enthusiastic response to this, and Peter pushed his way through to get to the bar before the thirsty ukulele players.

  ‘Well done, Andrew,’ said Ben, ‘although I can’t see why you had to have a meeting.’

  ‘I do,’ said Libby. ‘If he hadn’t, there would have been phone calls between the members of the group, and not everyone would have agreed, or known what the others were saying, and in the end a decision would have been taken without a consensus and there would have been all sorts of grumbling and argument. And then they might have gone to pieces.’

  ‘Really?’ Ben raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

  ‘Libby’s right,’ said Sir Andrew, ‘so I wanted to get them together and see what the mood was. I must admit the return of the tickets hadn’t occurred to me, Ben, and that would have been a blow.’

  ‘Look,’ said Libby, ‘I must go and help Pete in the bar. Ben, will you look after Cassandra for me?’

  But Cassandra was peering over heads towards the people pushing through to the foyer. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve seen someone I recognise.’

  Everyone turned to her in surprise.

  ‘You remember I told you about the nursery in Shott?’ she said to Libby. ‘Well there’s a picture of the owner on the website and in the catalogue.’ She pointed. ‘And I think that’s him, over there.’

  Libby saw a tall, rangy man with untidy grey hair just about to go through the auditorium doors.

  ‘Well, go after him, then,’ she said. ‘In case he runs away.’

  Cassandra grinned, and began to push through the remaining members of the ukulele group, with Libby behind her. When they arrived in the foyer, Libby went behind the bar to help Peter, and Cassandra buttonholed the tall grey-haired man. As Libby watched, he at first looked puzzled, then surprised, and finally delighted. Libby smiled and turned her attention to the next customer awaiting service.

  When the queue died down, Libby went to join Ben, who was chatting to Sir Andrew and D r Robinson.

  ‘… just an off-shoot of my Canterbury group in the beginning,’ Dr Robinson was saying, ‘then it took off in its own right.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know any of the members, really. I’d met Ron Stewart, and I suppose you could say I talked him into it. He brought along Vernon Bowling, I think. And Lewis Osbourne-Walker only came with his mother in the first place.’ He turned and frowned at Libby. ‘Didn’t you come with her once?’

  ‘Yes, because she didn’t want to come on her own and she didn’t know anyone else.’ Libby squinted up at him. ‘She didn’t feel it was a very friendly atmosphere.’

  ‘Oh, dear, really?’ Dr Robinson looked round the bar and spotted Lewis and Edie talking to Peter at the bar. ‘Perhaps I’d better go …’

  ‘Don’t worry about it now,’ said Libby. ‘Now you’ve got the concert to look forward to it seems people have banded together more. No pun intended.’

  Dr Robinson looked down at her, puzzled. ‘Oh, I see … Well, I suppose …’

  Ben grinned and Libby sighed.

  ‘Would you excuse us?’ said Ben. ‘We must just –’ He hustled Libby away. ‘No sense of humour, that man.’

  ‘We’ve left poor Sir Andrew with him,’ said Libby. ‘Oh, well, I suppose he can cope. But actually I wanted to pump him about the other members.’

  ‘Stop it, Lib. Not your business.’

  ‘No … oh, Edie!’ Libby gave the older woman a hug. ‘Lovely to see you. Have you got a minute to pop over and see Hetty?’

  ‘Just going,’ said Edie. ‘Lewis’ll come and get me when he’s ready.’ She smiled all round and bustled off towards the door.

  ‘Grand old girl, ain’t she?’ said Lewis, fondly. ‘Now, Lib, what did you want to ask me?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Go on, you can’t fool me. There’s this here murder – you’re bound to be investigatin’. Or pokin’ your nose in, anyway.’

  ‘No, I’m not!’ said Libby indignantly.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ said Ben. ‘I’ve told her not to.’

  Lewis patted Libby’s arm affectionately. ‘Lost hope, she is. She’ll carry on anyway, you know that.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Libby, shooting Ben a guilty look. ‘I just wanted to know why Mrs Bowling rang you the other night and not Dr Robinson – or – or someone else.’

  ‘Oh, because I came into the pub? No, she didn’t ring me, she rang Screwball. He didn’t want to go into the pub, so I went instead.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Dr Robinson said it was Stewart who brought Vernon Bowling to the group. Mates, were they?’

  Lewis shrugged. ‘Suppose so. They always sat together and I think they used to sometimes share lifts.’

  ‘But not that night?’

  ‘Statin’ the bleedin’ obvious, no.’

  ‘Do you know any of the other members?’ asked Peter, suddenly appearing from behind the bar.

  ‘Not really, nor does Mum. There was a bit of interest when I first turned up, but after that they seemed to take a delight in almost ignoring me. Snobs, every last one of ʼem.’

  ‘Don’t want to
be seen as fawning fans,’ said Libby. ‘But I bet they watch your programmes, even if they pretend not to.’

  ‘Libby.’ Cassandra’s voice called over the chatter of the now dispersing crowd. Libby turned and saw Cassandra coming towards her, the grey-haired man in tow.

  ‘Libby, Ben, this is Mike Farthing from Farthing’s Plants. He knew Vernon Bowling.’

  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.’