Murder Imperfect Page 5

  Libby scowled. Actually, she had been. Or rather, the police had been.

  ‘Anyway, why are you so interested in people who don’t like queers?’ Joe took his own mug from Owen, who had reappeared.

  ‘Oh, a friend who’s been getting nasty letters,’ said Libby, finishing her drink.

  ‘Not Harry or Peter?’ Joe looked shocked.

  ‘No, no. Just a friend.’

  ‘Cause trouble, those letters.’ Joe’s expression had darkened. ‘We had an old maid in the village – ooh, years ago – who sent ’em. Course, we didn’t know it was her. Another little old girl – friend of hers – killed herself. Then it all came out. Horrible.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Libby. ‘I never knew that.’

  ‘Years before your time,’ said Joe. ‘Flo and Hetty’ll remember.’

  ‘I bet they do,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll ask them.’

  ‘And don’t you go getting involved in anonymous letters,’ Joe called after her, as she went back to her car. ‘They’re dangerous. Get people killed.’

  That’s what I’m afraid of, thought Libby, as she drove away.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘DO YOU REMEMBER SOME anonymous letters and someone committing suicide, Flo?’

  Libby had decided to ask Flo Carpenter about Joe’s story rather than Hetty, who might find it upsetting in view of some of the events in her family’s recent history.

  Flo waved at an armchair and blew cigarette smoke out of a corner of her mouth. The little sitting room was overheated and the blue smoke hung just beneath the standard lamp. Libby thought again about giving up smoking.

  ‘Yeah, course. Old Amy Taylor, it was.’

  ‘Who was? The suicide?’

  ‘Yeah. That Maud Burton wrote the letters. What d’yer want to know for?’

  ‘Joe up at Cattlegreen was telling me this morning. He said it was horrible.’

  Flo nodded. ‘What you up at Cattlegreen for? He’s got a shop here now, just round the corner from here.’

  Libby nodded. ‘I know. I was buying a tree.’

  ‘Christmas tree? You don’t want to do that. Nice artificial one, that’s what you want. Don’t shed no needles.’ Flo held her hands out to her electric fire. ‘Like this, see? No coal, no dust.’

  ‘I know,’ said Libby. ‘I’m just a glutton for punishment. Anyway, you remember Amy Taylor and Maud Burton?’

  ‘Told you I did. They was both church ’ens. Both fancied the vicar.’

  ‘Golly. Sounds like an old-fashioned detective story.’

  Flo cocked her head. ‘Well, you would think that,’ she said.

  ‘Go on,’ said Libby. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Back in the early sixties, must’ve been. Might ’ave even been in the fifties. Anyway, we ’ad a new vicar. Course, I wasn’t living in the Close then, wasn’t even built.’

  Maltby Close was the little lane that led to the church, and along which had been built tasteful retirement cottages attached to an original converted barn.

  ‘Burton and Taylor, we called ’em,’ said Flo, gazing into her fire. ‘Always together. Then this new vicar come and off they went. Always tryin’ to out-do each other. Bringin’ ’im cakes, offerin’ to do little jobs for him. Always hangin’ around the church, doin’ flowers, cleanin’ the brass, that sort of thing. Then he finds out Amy plays the piano, and asks her up to some kind of party at the vicarage to play.’

  ‘And didn’t he ask Maud?’

  ‘No. And you can imagine what she thought of that. Anyway, it all calmed down, and then the letters started arrivin’.’

  ‘To Amy?’

  ‘No, other people. My Frank, he got one, Hetty did, even Greg. The doctor – old Grimes, the churchwarden. Maud got one, too.’

  ‘And how did people know? They usually keep those sort of thing quiet.’

  ‘Well, the vicar got one, and he was so mad he stood up in the pulpit that Sunday and read it out. Then he said if anyone else had got them, they should come right out and say, so o’ course, they did. And it was all round the village.’

  ‘And what about Amy?’

  ‘Well, that was just it, you see. Old Maud didn’t care about any of the others so she made stuff up, but there was one thing she did know about, and that was Amy’s secret. So she sent her a letter after all the fuss about the others, threatening to tell. And Amy walked down to that old pond the other side of the village one night and drowned herself.’

  ‘And how did they find out? And what was her secret?’ Libby was sitting on the edge of her chair by now.

  ‘She left the letter in her little cottage and wrote underneath “It’s true”. And then o’ course, the police had to look into it a bit, ’cause it was a death. And old Maud, she hadn’t been careful, like. They found the writing paper and everything in her house. Then she breaks down and confesses to the vicar. Tells him it was all for him.’

  ‘But what was Amy’s secret?’ Libby leant further forward.

  ‘You’ll be off the edge o’ that chair in a minute,’ said Flo. ‘Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? She’d had a baby in the war.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Libby sat back. ‘So did Hetty.’

  ‘So did lots o’ people,’ said Flo darkly, ‘but you didn’t talk about it. People was still sent away in those days. Hetty went back to London, didn’t she? Even in the sixties, girls were sent off to those terrible homes and had their babies taken away from them. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘I was a bit young, then,’ said Libby, apologetically. ‘I remember someone in my class having an abortion, though. It was a dreadful scandal.’

  ‘That was it, you see. It just wasn’t done. Everyone did do it, o’ course, but you mustn’t get caught.’

  ‘So poor Amy had a baby. Did you ever find out who was the father? Or what happened to it?’

  ‘They reckoned as it was a hopper.’

  ‘A hop-picker?’ echoed Libby.

  Flo nodded.

  ‘They did cause trouble, didn’t they?’ Libby shook her head. ‘I mean, Hetty came back and married Greg, so everything was all right, but look at all the other stuff that happened.’

  Flo nodded again, looking inwards to her memories. ‘Oh, there was some ’andsome lads used to come down,’ she said slowly. ‘Just tryin’ their luck, like. No papers, nothin’.’

  ‘No papers? I thought everyone had to have identity cards in the war?’

  ‘You did. But there was ways of gettin’ round it. And the farmers was often desperate for pickers, or for pole pullers. War, you see. All the boys were off fightin’.’

  ‘I thought it was mainly women and children doing the picking.’

  ‘Yeah. Mostly. And we used to get some o’ them down, too. Women with no papers. Like they’d been bombed out and lost everything.’

  ‘Well, they could have, couldn’t they?’ said Libby.

  ‘You ’ad to report it if you lost your card. But lots of ’em got away with it, for one reason or another. Didn’t like the old man, or got fed up with the kids, or the mother-in-law.’

  ‘No!’

  Flo shrugged. ‘It was different then. It was war. Nothin’ was the same. People got off with each other just because they might never do it again.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s what happened to Amy.’

  ‘It’s awful.’ Libby looked at the glowing bars of the fire. ‘But you still haven’t said what happened to the baby?’

  Flo shrugged. ‘No one ever knew. Could’a been dead. I expect the police looked into it, but it never come out, if they did.’ She looked up at Libby. ‘And don’t you go pokin’ yer nose in, either!’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ said Libby huffily. ‘No reason to.’

  ‘Then why was you curious? Why was you askin’?’

  ‘I told you. Joe mentioned it this morning.’

  Flo eyed her shrewdly. ‘And why would Joe mention it? No reason it suddenly come out that I can think of.’

  Libby sighed. ‘It was anonymous letters
,’ she said.

  ‘You been gettin’ ’em?’

  ‘No, nothing like that, but a friend has.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Look, Flo, I can’t tell you any more, but I was trying to find out what sort of person would send letters like that. Joe mentioned the story you’ve just told me, although he didn’t know as much about it as you. He said I should ask either Hetty or you.’

  Flo still looked suspicious. ‘Why would you ask ’im?’

  ‘Um,’ said Libby.

  ‘Um yerself.’ Flo stood up. ‘Oh, well, if you won’t tell me, you won’t. But you did come ’ere askin’.’

  ‘Joe said he hadn’t been sure about Harry,’ said Libby hastily. ‘Then he’d changed his mind.’

  Flo sat down again. ‘About Harry?’

  ‘Being gay,’ said Libby.

  ‘But ’e knew Peter. What’s the difference?’

  ‘I expect he didn’t know Peter was gay. A lot of people didn’t. Still don’t.’

  Flo shrugged. ‘Can’t tell their arse from their elbow, then. Bleedin’ obvious.’

  ‘Yes, but everyone isn’t as tolerant as you are, Flo,’ said Libby with a grin.

  ‘Yer right there. Why, my Lenny could be right pig-’eaded about that stuff.’

  Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘But Peter’s Lenny’s nephew!’ She was fond of Lenny.

  ‘Never ’ad much to do with ’im, did ’e? Remember ’ow when we ’ad that business at the theatre, Hetty didn’t want Len down ’ere?’

  ‘Yes, but that was for an obvious reason. It’s all cleared up, now.’

  ‘Yeah, but it meant for years Len didn’t have anything to do with the family. I told you at the time.’

  ‘So did everyone,’ said Libby, ‘but he’s all right with it now, isn’t he?’

  ‘Course ’e is.’ She stood up again. ‘You stayin’ for a cuppa? He’s gone down the shops. ’E’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘No, I won’t, thanks Flo. I’ve got shopping of my own to do.’

  ‘Could’a done it up at Cattlegreen.’

  ‘I didn’t think of it,’ said Libby. ‘I shall go to the butcher’s and Nella’s farm shop instead.’

  Lenny, Hetty’s brother who now lived with Flo, his childhood sweetheart, appeared with a carrier bag and an umbrella as Libby was getting into Romeo.

  ‘You didn’t drive round ’ere!’ he said, folding the umbrella. ‘Lost the use of yer legs, ’ave you?’

  ‘She drove here from somewhere else, you nosy old blighter,’ said Flo from behind him. Libby gave them a wave and drove carefully down Maltby Close to the high street. Opposite, she could see Donna moving about inside The Pink Geranium, and Harry’s tasteful Christmas decorations glinting as they twisted above her head.

  She thought about parking and going in to see if Harry had heard anything more from Cy or Colin, but decided it might be tactless after he had promised to apologise to Ben for getting her involved. Then she realised that if he had managed to get hold of Ben, that’s where he would be now, not to mention the fact that here she was, still getting herself involved with the story. With a tut of annoyance, she indicated, turned right and headed for home.

  The heating had gone off and the house was cold. There was a forecast of snow for next week, she remembered, and hoped it wouldn’t put everyone’s Christmas plans on hold, or even disrupt panto rehearsals. She turned the heating on, turned up the thermostat and went to get kindling for the fire. Then remembered she’d been going to do some shopping. Sighing, she dumped the kindling on the hearth and went to put on her cape.

  She opened the door straight on to Harry.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, stepping back in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Fairly obviously, petal, I came to see you. Were you on your way out?’

  ‘Fairly obviously,’ she repeated.

  ‘Anywhere important?’

  ‘Shopping, if you must know,’ said Libby. ‘Why?’

  ‘Tell you what, then,’ said Harry, ‘you do your shopping and then come into the caff. I’ll give you some lunch.’

  ‘I might have been doing supermarket shopping.’

  ‘No you weren’t. You’ve got your basket with you. You don’t take that to the supermarket.’

  ‘Curses,’ said Libby with a grimace. ‘Foiled again.’ She pulled the door shut behind her. ‘Come on then, off we go. Have you been to see Ben?’

  ‘That’s where I’ve come from,’ said Harry, as they set off down Allhallow’s Lane. ‘Bloody cold, this walking, isn’t it?’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Not a lot, really.’ Harry turned up the collar of his pea jacket. ‘He didn’t want to go for a drink, so I went up to the office. Het gave me some coffee.’

  ‘Is he mad with you? I couldn’t get anything out of him last night except he didn’t want me getting involved – again, as he put it.’

  ‘He says that every time,’ said Harry. ‘Mind you, so do the rest of us. But the other night he actually admitted that if he said he didn’t want you to do something, that would make it certain that you would.’

  ‘But that was before he heard what you had to say last night. And I think he’s realised, all over again, that he really has no sway over me at all. We aren’t married, we have no children between us and he’s living in my house.’ Libby kicked gloomily at a tussock of muddy grass at the edge of the path. ‘No wonder he wants to go and live in Steeple Farm.’

  ‘But he’d know you could still run back here if you got upset about anything. He’s never going to be certain of you, Lib, you’ve got to face that.’

  Libby looked up at him. ‘I’d never thought of it like that before,’ she said. ‘How awful.’

  They turned right into the high street and Libby stopped outside Bob’s butcher’s shop. ‘I’m going in here,’ she said, ‘then I’m going to the farm shop. I’ll come in after that.’

  ‘Don’t be long,’ said Harry. ‘I have news.’

  Libby watched his tall figure striding away towards the restaurant and felt a shiver of apprehension in her stomach. For goodness’ sake, what now?

  Chapter Eight

  ‘OK, WHAT’S THE NEWS?’ Libby leant back in the sofa and folded her arms.

  Harry beamed at her from across the coffee table. ‘Cy’s panto is one of yours.’

  Libby cast her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Is that all? I already knew that.’

  ‘Oh.’ Harry looked surprised. ‘How?’

  ‘I Googled it. First I found the Hop Hall Players, then that they were doing my Cinderella. I’m surprised I didn’t already know, actually. My old society usually let me know if they’ve hired out a script.’

  ‘I should have thought of that,’ said Harry. ‘Here’s Donna with the coffee.’ He took the cafetière and mugs and placed them on the table. ‘But that’s not all.’

  ‘What, then? Come on, Harry, don’t wind me up.’

  ‘Did you know the entrance to that park is right near to where the panto rehearsals are held?’

  ‘Yes, I knew that too. I can research things on the computer, you know. I’m not a complete idiot.’

  Harry looked doubtful and she hit him with a menu.

  ‘OK, well, it turns out the murdered bloke is also a member of Cy’s group.’

  ‘No!’ gasped Libby. ‘That’s terrible!’

  ‘Well, it pretty much rules out coincidence, doesn’t it?’ Harry pushed down the cafetière’s plunger.

  ‘So, I wonder if he was meant to be a warning to Cy?’ Libby poured coffee. ‘But he can’t have been. One or other of them was attacked straight after the other, by all accounts, and Cy’s was only interrupted because that lady –’

  ‘Sheila.’

  ‘Sheila – came along and disturbed them. So that note was an afterthought. Must have been.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Looks like it. Looks like it really is a hate campaign.’ He shivered. ‘Remind me never to go out after dark in Maidstone.’

&nbs
p; ‘Of course,’ said Libby slowly, ‘we do need to find out if the other person also received threatening letters.’

  Harry paused with his mug half way to his mouth. ‘Good God.’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘If it is a hate campaign against gays, they’ll all be treated the same way.’

  ‘Unless they don’t know where the other guy lives. Lived.’

  ‘We’re still saying they. Do we know if it was more than one? I know Sheila didn’t see anyone, and Cy said he thought it was, but surely it’s only one person writing letters. Anyway, they’d have found out where he lived, if they’d taken the trouble to find out he was gay,’ said Libby. ‘And found out where he was likely to be. What was he in the panto?’

  ‘He wasn’t in it,’ said Harry. ‘He was something to do with costumes.’

  Libby rolled her eyes. ‘Couldn’t have tried to be less stereotypical, I suppose?’

  Harry grinned. ‘And Cy designed the sets.’

  ‘Oh, purleese! Did Colin do the wigs?’

  ‘Colin’s only there on and off, remember. I think that Sheila does the hair. Among other things.’

  Libby laughed. ‘Well, it must have made it easy to home in on his target, then.’

  ‘Him or them,’ said Harry. ‘Didn’t he get the impression it was youngsters?’

  ‘Did he?’ Libby frowned. ‘I don’t remember. So, a gang of young thugs. That’s also a bit stereotypical.’ She looked up. ‘And I’ll tell you what else, too.’

  She related her conversations with Joe and Flo and the story of Amy and Maud.

  ‘It started because I asked Joe who he thought would be the type to write anonymous letters, you see. And he gave me some broad generalisations. And young thugs don’t fit with any of them.’

  ‘But I bet the redtop reader with a chip on his shoulder does,’ said Harry.

  ‘Who could possibly get hold of some young thugs and fire them up, you mean?’ Libby nodded thoughtfully. ‘And do you suppose the police have thought of all this?’

  ‘And more, I should imagine.’ Harry drained his mug. ‘I ought to get into the kitchen. Are you sure you don’t want lunch?’

  ‘Positive.’ Libby stood up. ‘I want to go home and do some Christmas shopping online. And I don’t want to be too full to eat this evening and set Ben off again.’