Murder Imperfect Read online

  ‘Have a look and see what you can find out,’ said Peter. ‘If it’s real people we don’t want to go treading on descendants’ toes.’ He shuddered elegantly. ‘We’ve done that already.’

  Libby patted his hand. ‘We know,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a look and see what comes up. We’re in no hurry, are we?’

  ‘In a way,’ she said to Ben as they walked home a little later, ‘it could fit in with finding out about Cy’s background.’

  ‘Eh?’ Ben looked at her, startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hop pickers,’ said Libby. ‘The Hop Hall Players were founded by hoppers.’

  Ben sighed in exasperation. ‘What on earth has that got to do with Cy? He’s only about thirty-five, if that.’

  ‘But his mum Josephine might have been the daughter of hoppers.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’ Ben shook his head at her. ‘You really are amazing. How on earth you’ve connected Cy to hop picking apart from the name of his drama society I just cannot fathom.’

  ‘No.’ Libby was downcast. ‘You’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking. And we don’t really need to go into his past anyway, now, do we? Not now Patrick’s been murdered.’

  ‘It’s a strange way to put it,’ said Ben, as they arrived at number 17, ‘but no. Unless we can find a link between Cy and Patrick apart from the society, but basically it looks as though it’s a gay-hate crime.’

  ‘By someone with a connection to the society, though,’ said Libby, tripping over the doorstep. ‘Why do I still do that?’

  ‘Because you’re careless,’ said Ben, pushing her ahead of him into the sitting room. ‘Put the kettle on.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ Libby threw him a dirty look and her cape on to a chair.

  ‘Sorry.’ He grinned and gave her a hug as he put her gently aside and went into the kitchen himself.

  Libby hung her cape up under the stairs and went to the fireplace.

  ‘So what are we going to do about helping Cy?’ she said, riddling the grate with the poker. ‘You said you wanted to help, but we haven’t decided how.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ben. ‘You know more about these things then I do.’

  ‘Great,’ she said, sitting back on her heels and looking at him. ‘So you commit us to helping and then don’t know what we’re going to do.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ said Ben, crossing his arms and looking stern. ‘I said I’d help you. You were the one who committed to helping, when Harry asked you.’

  ‘Young whats’erface got to you. That’s why you said you’d help.’

  ‘Lisa, yes. And, though I don’t necessarily like you getting involved in these things, I can see that in this case you might look into different aspects of what’s happened rather than the obvious, as the police will.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Libby, returning to the grate and piling kindling on top of a firelighter. Ben looked at her bent head for a moment, then went to make the tea.

  ‘You told me you suggested there was something else behind Cy’s letters when you went over there with Harry.’ Ben brought in two steaming mugs.

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, heaving herself up and on to the cane sofa. ‘But as soon as we heard about Patrick that seemed unlikely.’

  ‘Then why were you trying to link him to hop picking?’

  Libby looked confused. ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘It was just when I was researching the Hop Hall Players I wondered if his mum had anything to do with them as she and her husband bought Cy’s bungalow quite near the Aird Memorial Hall.’

  Ben looked exasperated once more. ‘But that wasn’t the original headquarters, you told me. And when she bought the bungalow, it was years and years after the hoppers had gone. And by the way, why do you always say “Cy’s Mum” not his parents?’

  ‘Because that’s what Cy and Colin said to me.’ Libby frowned. ‘I suppose it is a bit odd, isn’t it? Perhaps Cy’s dad died, or she was divorced.’

  ‘She died, didn’t she?’ said Ben. ‘She must have been very young.’

  ‘Sixty-ish?’ suggested Libby. ‘That is young these days, isn’t it? Anyway, I can’t very well go asking Cy if there was something odd about his parentage, can I? Not unless I find something to point to it, and I can’t see how I’m going to do that.’

  ‘No,’ said Ben. ‘Neither can I.’ He looked across at her and grinned. ‘Not easy, this detective work, is it?’

  Chapter Eleven

  LATER THAT EVENING, LIBBY phoned Cy, who passed her to Colin on the basis that he was more intelligible.

  ‘Colin, Ben and I have been working all the way round this, and we can’t seem to come up with anything that the police won’t be looking into. The only link is the society, apart from them both being gay, so is there anyone there who is rabidly homophobic?’

  ‘Not that Cy knows of,’ said Colin, ‘and anyway, I think that’s the direction the police are looking in.’

  ‘Yes, they would be,’ sighed Libby. ‘How about Cy’s background? I know we went into it a little bit the other day, but it’s the only other thing I can think of.’

  ‘His background? Well, we told you we moved here after he got his promotion, didn’t we? And this was his mum’s house.’

  ‘Yes, you did, and that Josephine bought it – when? When Cy was a child? Did he live there?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You lived here when you were little didn’t you?’ he called out. ‘Yes, he says. Him and his mum.’

  ‘You said the other day, Josephine and her husband. Wasn’t he Cy’s dad?’

  There was slight movement at the other end of the line and when Colin spoke, it was obvious that he was trying to keep out of Cy’s hearing.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘As far as I can make out, she was a single mum. They moved here when she got together with – well, Cy called him his dad, but he wasn’t really. I never knew him. He died really young, in an accident, I think. It hit poor Jo hard. She was a lovely lady.’

  ‘So you knew her?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She used to talk to me sometimes. We’d come and visit, and Cy would go off to do some little job or other for her, and she’d talk to me.’

  ‘So where had she come from? Maidstone?’

  ‘She was a hopper’s daughter,’ said Colin. Pause. ‘Hello? Libby? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘I was just surprised. I’d wondered, you see, because of being associated with the Hop Hall Players if she was, but …’

  ‘Oh, no, dear, she wasn’t. Nothing to do with them. ’

  ‘Really? Why? Do you know?’

  ‘Not absolutely,’ said Colin slowly. ‘But I do know she was adopted. Well, fostered, I think. Not completely sure.’

  ‘It does a bit. How much does Cy know?’

  ‘Not much more than me, I think. He’s never talked about it.’

  ‘Do you think he would?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I don’t know, frankly. And what good would it do? It doesn’t link up with dear old Paddy, does it?’

  ‘It might, mightn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘Suppose there was someone who was around then who knew something about Josephine and Patrick’s family.’

  ‘It sounds a bit far-fetched to me,’ said Colin, sounding dubious. ‘And don’t forget, those letters were about being gay. They didn’t say anything else.’

  ‘I wish you’d kept them,’ sighed Libby.

  ‘That’s what the police said.’

  ‘Well, it’s the wording, you see,’ said Libby. ‘There’s a lot to be said for actually reading the stuff yourself.’

  Colin sighed deeply. ‘Well, I’ll ask him. After all, he did agree to let Harry ask you in to help, didn’t he? And that’s what you’re trying to do.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Libby. ‘But if he doesn’t want to talk about it, well, probably best just to leave it to the police after all.’

  ‘I’ll ask him. I’m off again on Monday, so I’ll try and get him to ring you tomorr
ow. All right?’

  ‘And that’s where we’ll have to leave it,’ said Libby to Ben after she’d put the phone down, ‘so in the meantime, I might as well see what I can find out about Burton and Taylor.’

  ‘And how will you do that?’ Ben had appropriated the sofa and sat with his feet up, his book resting on top of Sidney, who adorned his stomach.

  ‘Oh, lord, I don’t know.’ Libby sat down in the armchair. ‘Parish records?’

  ‘Local paper, I thought we said?’

  ‘Jane, yes. Can’t very well ring her this evening, though. I’ll have to wait until Monday.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s Saturday evening. She and Terry are probably out, or something.’

  ‘She and Terry don’t go out. You know that. They’re worse than we are. And having been married since the summer, the “or something” is probably no more than a take-away and a DVD.’

  ‘They won’t want that interrupted,’ said Libby. ‘No, I’ll wait till tomorrow.’

  ‘There’s a connection, here, isn’t there?’ Ben looked at her shrewdly and put his book down.

  Libby fidgeted with the tassel on a cushion. ‘Just a coincidence, really,’ she said.

  ‘What is? Come on, Lib. I know that look.’

  ‘Amy Taylor had a baby, apparently by a hopper.’ Libby gazed into the fire. ‘Coincidence, see?’

  ‘Oho!’ Ben swung his feet to the floor and upset Sidney. ‘And you’ve now got it into your head that Amy’s baby was Cy’s mum!’

  Libby looked somewhat disconcerted.

  ‘Go on, admit it,’ said Ben. ‘I bet that’s what you thought.’

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘That would just be too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it bloody well would,’ said Ben.

  ‘But on the other hand,’ said Libby, ‘if I can find out what happened to Amy’s baby, it might give me a clue as to how Josephine came to be fostered.’

  ‘You could always ask me, you know,’ said Ben. ‘I was around at the time.’

  Libby stared at him, open-mouthed.

  ‘Hadn’t that occurred to you? I know I was only young, but I remember Burton and Taylor, and the secrecy that surrounded everything. Believe it or not, I used to go to Sunday School and Amy Taylor taught there. That’s how the vicar found out she could play the piano.’

  Libby found her voice. ‘Why haven’t you told me any of this before?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘Flo knew more about it than I did. So did Mum, I expect. Why didn’t you ask her?’

  ‘I thought it might upset her, after – well, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Ben. ‘In fact, a lot of people might think that it was a bit too near the knuckle after what happened last time.’

  ‘I was thinking about that,’ said Libby. ‘And I know that because of the play it brought up a lot of memories that may have been best left unstirred, but despite what Peter thinks, it wasn’t the play that caused the murder, was it?’

  ‘No,’ conceded Ben. ‘And to be fair, the village enjoyed it.’

  ‘I think they quite enjoyed the murder, as well as the play. The only thing to worry about, then, is what Peter said. Are there any descendants still around? And what about the vicar? And all those other people Flo said got letters?’

  Ben stood up. ‘Drink?’ he suggested. When Libby nodded he went to pour two whiskies. ‘Well,’ he said, returning with glasses, ‘let’s see. First of all, the vicar. It was the Reverend Greene –’

  ‘No!’ gasped Libby. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Absolutely true, honest. Harold Greene, I think his name was. Doctor Abercrombie, Albert Grimes, the churchwarden, who also worked for one of the outlying farms, mum and dad both got one, so did Flo’s Frank Carpenter. So Susan and I are still around, as are mum and dad, so’s Flo, Abercrombie’s long gone, and his children never lived here, Greene was moved on after the statutory time, whatever that was, and as far as I know, neither Amy nor Maud herself had any relations around. They could have had, of course, I doubt if I would have known. Cousins, maybe? I don’t know if either of them actually came from round here, or if they’d moved here from somewhere else.’

  ‘What about Grimes?’ Libby sipped her whisky.

  ‘Oh, yes, Grimes. He lived in that row of cottages just off New Barton Lane.’

  New Barton Lane was the effective continuation of Steeple Martin’s high street, at the junction with Allhallow’s Lane and the Canterbury Road.

  ‘The ones that stand at right angles?’ asked Libby. ‘Where the river runs by?’

  To call the Wytch a river was rather aggrandising, but that was officially its name. It ran parallel with New Barton Lane and disappeared into a culvert at the junction with the high street. It reappeared further down, as the high street turned into the Nethergate Road, and sauntered off in the direction of Steeple Farm, running in a little valley alongside Steeple Lane.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Ben. ‘Although they’ve all been gentrified since his time, so there are twee little bridges across the river. And new bungalows beyond them.’

  ‘Don’t sound so po-faced about them,’ said Libby, amused. ‘People have to live somewhere, and those new bungalows were built by old Mr Boncastle for his farm workers. They aren’t second-homers, or anything like that.’

  Ben sighed. ‘No, I know. And Boncastle was a good man. Trouble is, his own home has now become a second home.’

  Libby reflected on this. New Farm was further along New Barton Lane, and its farmhouse had subsequently been sold to non-farming people, after the rest of the farmland had been sold off. New Farm bungalows had been sold to their occupants for a nominal sum, according to Mr Boncastle’s will, to the annoyance of the new owners of New Farm, who had been hoping for a quick and easy profit from the five buildings.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Ben, ‘that was where Albert lived. I doubt if any of his children stayed around the village. There would have been nowhere for them to live in those days.’

  ‘Where did Maud and Amy live?’

  ‘Amy lived somewhere off the Nethergate road,’ said Ben. ‘I’m not sure where Maud lived. Could have been in the high street, or maybe Lendle Lane. Not sure.’

  ‘Where’s the pond that Amy drowned herself in?’

  Ben looked startled. ‘Good lord,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘How could you? That was how she committed suicide.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but I just – well, I just hadn’t thought …’ Ben shook his head. ‘Actually, I’m not sure.’

  ‘That old pond the other side of the village, Flo said.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ben looked up. ‘The dew pond, it must have been. We always called it the dew pond, although I don’t suppose it was. Too deep. We were forbidden to go there, although some of the village boys did go. They fished there, although I always thought there weren’t any fish.’

  ‘OK, so it was the dewpond,’ said Libby, irritated. ‘But where is it?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Between the Nethergate road and Steeple Lane, in a dip.’

  ‘So it could be fed by the Wytch?’ said Libby. ‘In that case it isn’t a dewpond.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ben, now also irritated. ‘I only said we called it the dewpond. Why are you being so picky, anyway?’

  ‘If I’m going to write a play about it, I need to know the facts,’ said Libby.

  ‘But you haven’t decided to write it yet. You were just asking if any of the descendants were likely to be offended or affected by it. Hadn’t you better find that out first?’

  Libby frowned. ‘You said I should ask you. That’s how the conversation started.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Ben finished his whisky. ‘Well, as I said, I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘But you don’t really know,’ said Libby. ‘I’d better see if I can get into the electoral roll.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that easy,’ said Ben. ‘Phone book would be easier.�
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  ‘But that would be the whole of the Canterbury and District area,’ said Libby. ‘How could you narrow down Steeple Martin?’

  ‘Post office!’ Ben looked smug. ‘Ali and Ahmed will know.’

  ‘Which one’s the postmaster?’ asked Libby. ‘And besides, it’s probably privileged information. I expect they can’t tell you, like interfering with Her Majesty’s Mail.’

  ‘But people go in there to ask all the time,’ said Ben. ‘Ahmed was only telling me a little while ago, he had an American come in and ask if someone lived here, and Ahmed was able to tell him.’

  ‘Oh?’ Libby was interested. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t remember, but it was a descendant of someone who went to the States in the war.’

  ‘Ooh, a GI bride?’

  Ben looked at her with distaste. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Oh. Well, anyway, it means they might know. Shall we go and ask them?’

  ‘Monday you can,’ said Ben. ‘Not tonight and certainly not tomorrow. Even if they do open on Sundays, it isn’t fair to start asking them to go the extra mile when they could be trying to relax. They take it in turns, don’t they?’

  ‘And they do actually close in the afternoon on Sunday,’ said Libby. ‘OK, I’ll wait until Monday. That’s two things to do on Monday. Phone Jane and ask the boys.’

  Chapter Twelve

  IN FACT, LIBBY COULD not contain her soul in patience until Monday morning, but telephoned Jane Baker early Sunday evening and asked if there was any way of accessing the Nethergate Mercury’s back issues, and if, back in the nineteen fifties, they were part of the same group as the paper covering Steeples Martin, Mount and Cross.

  ‘I think it was independent back then,’ said Jane, ‘but it would have reported anything major going on in any of the Steeples. Everything’s on fiche at the library, of course, I’ll have a look tomorrow, and let you know as soon as I can.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Jane. I didn’t like to disturb you last night, it being Saturday, although Ben said you wouldn’t have minded.’

  ‘No, you should have done. We only had a take-away and a DVD. What is it you want, exactly?’