Chapter Twenty-five

‘Listen,’ said Libby on the phone to Fran. ‘It’s John Lethbridge we should be looking at.’

‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘So?’

‘Well, we’ve been looking at Bill Frensham.’

‘You have. Ever since we came back yesterday I’ve been thinking about the motive for Lethbridge’s murder, if what Ian said was right.’

‘Oh,’ Libby said, deflated. ‘Harry pointed it out last night. I hadn’t thought of it.’

‘Wilhelmina would be a good place to start,’ said Fran. ‘How do we get to her?’

‘She has kept cropping up, hasn’t she? I could ask Gemma.’

‘What about that Diggory person?’

‘He cropped up again last night, too,’ said Libby, and repeated the conversation.

‘You could always get on to him about the Goddess business,’ suggested Fran.

‘Yeah, right,’ said Libby.

But the next person she spoke to on the phone came as a total surprise.

‘Is that Mrs Wilde?’ The female voice was soft and hesitant, timorous almost, thought Libby.

‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘I’m Ben’s partner, Libby Sarjeant. Can I help you?’

‘I don’t really know,’ said the voice. ‘Did you go and see Mr Phillips at Frensham Barn yesterday?’

‘Ye-es,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself.’ The voice gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m Monica Frensham.’

Libby’s eyebrows flew up. ‘Mrs Frensham?’ she repeated.

‘Er – yes.’ Monica Frensham cleared her throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind my phoning you, only I understand you’ve been asking some questions.’

Libby’s stomach rolled in acute embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry –’ she began.

‘No, no, please,’ interrupted Monica. ‘I don’t mind at all. In fact, I was wondering – could we meet?’

Meet? Libby’s brain started flying in all directions. ‘Of course, if you feel –’

‘Yes, please. And your friend? Mrs – Wolfe, is it?’

‘No,’ said Libby. ‘I mean, yes.’ She stopped for a moment. ‘May I ask how you know – um – about us?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Barry Phillips called me yesterday. And Gemma Baverstock has called once or twice to see how I am – was.’

‘I see,’ said Libby slowly. ‘Well, of course we’d love to see you, if you think we can help in any way. Where and when do you suggest?’

‘Oh, I don’t mind. Shall I come to you? Or would you like to come to me? Or somewhere else?’ Monica’s voice sounded stronger now.

‘Why don’t Fran and I come to you?’ suggested Libby, deciding it would be a good plan to have a look at Bill Frensham’s home ground.

‘Certainly. Whenever you want.’

‘I’ll get in touch with Fran – Mrs Wolfe – and call you back. And thank you for calling.’

‘Well!’ said Libby to Sidney as she dialled 1471 to obtain the Frensham number. ‘That takes the biscuit. Would you believe it?’

She punched the button for Fran’s number and prowled round the sitting room waiting for it to be answered.

‘Hello,’ said Fran’s surprised voice. ‘Did you forget something?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Libby, and explained.

‘Well I’ll be –’ said Fran.

‘So was I,’ said Libby. ‘So we want to go, don’t we?’

‘I’ll say we do,’ said Fran. ‘Any time she says.’

‘Today?’

‘Whenever she wants,’ said Fran.

‘This afternoon?’ suggested Monica when Libby called back.

‘Yes, if you’re sure that would be convenient,’ said Libby. ‘About three?’

The Frensham house turned out to be in a hamlet deep into hop-farming country. Fran picked Libby up on the way, and after negotiating some very narrow lanes between very high hedges, they came out on a ridge looking down into a shallow valley, where a cluster of houses huddled round a church. Hop gardens lay to one side, while rolling green fields lay to the other, a wood topping the rise on the other side of the valley.

‘I wonder if this valley continues to Steeple Mount,’ said Libby, as Fran set the car to drive slowly down the steep lane to the hamlet.

‘It’s called Steeple Cross,’ said Fran, ‘so it’s sure to be connected. I bet we could have got here easier than coming via Steeple Martin.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Libby. ‘Here, look. That’s the house.’

The road flattened out just as two redbrick gateposts topped with white pineapples appeared on their right. A curving gravelled drive led to a pristine neo-Georgian house, flanked on all sides by manicured lawns, regimental cypresses and depressed shrubs. Libby and Fran looked at each other.

‘I’m glad we didn’t bring Romeo,’ muttered Libby, as they got out of Fran’s little Roller Skate. ‘He’s not half smart enough for this place.’

Monica Frensham opened the panelled front door before they could get near it.

‘Hello,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m so glad you could come.’ She stood back to allow them entry, then with a quick, bird-like nod, showed them into a huge room on their left.

Windows looked out over the drive, and at the other end, french doors led into what appeared to be an enormous conservatory. A faux fireplace sat against the side wall, with a spiky and formal arrangement of twigs and silk flowers on its hearth and a group of photographs on the mantel. Monica gestured to a corner sofa arrangement in pale green and took a large leather rocking chair herself, her thin body and mouse-brown hair overwhelmed by its opulence.

‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ she said again. ‘I can’t tell you how frustrated I’ve been.’

Libby swallowed and blinked.

‘Oh – oh, I’m sorry.’ Monica stood up. ‘Tea? Would you like tea? I should have asked as soon as you got here. And cake. I won’t be a moment.’ And she hurried out the way they had come in.

‘Frustrated, eh?’ murmured Libby.

Fran nodded. ‘By Frensham Holdings. But let her tell it.’

Libby nodded and went to the mantelpiece to look at the photographs. There were two family groups, one from several years ago when the two children were small and one comparatively recent. She was surprised at Bill Frensham’s appearance, which she barely remembered. Tall and good-looking, with a sharp, pointed face which was reflected in the two children’s features, he bent solicitously towards his wife, who was turned slightly away from him, her own sharp features softened as she looked at her children.

Monica must have had everything prepared, for she returned in a very short time pushing a tea trolley – a tea trolley! thought Libby – with cups, teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two-tier cake stand. She gave a nervous little laugh.

‘I never get to have proper tea any more,’ she said. ‘You must excuse me for indulging myself.’ She sat down and sighed. ‘This is such a treat.’

When they were all served with tea and Libby had taken two small chocolate cakes, Monica put her cup on a side table and looked down at her hands.

‘I know this must have seemed an odd request,’ she began, ‘but when I heard you’d been asking questions, I though you might help me. I’ve been wanting to ask questions too, you see, and no one will answer them.’

‘I’m not sure I quite understand how you knew we were asking questions,’ said Fran.

‘I told Mrs Wilde – I mean Sarjeant – Barry Phillips told me.’

‘But I didn’t actually ask him questions,’ said Libby, feeling uncomfortable. ‘I went there to hire the barn for my – for Ben. It was Eliz – Mrs Martin – who put the cat among the pigeons.’

Monica’s eyes narrowed and her expression changed. She looks like an angry mouse, thought Libby. ‘Elizabeth Martin. Yes.’ She was silent for a moment and Fran and Libby exchanged stealthy glances. Eventually, she took a deep breath and looked up.

‘Barry said he’d told you Martin and my husband had an affair?’

Omigod, thought Libby. ‘Yes,’ she said aloud.

‘And that it was over but she wouldn’t let go?’

Libby nodded.

‘Well, that’s only half the problem.’ Monica picked up her cup and took a sip. ‘She’s actively preventing me from looking into the firm’s business. I’m the major shareholder now, and although when he was alive Bill never wanted me to get involved in the business, unless I sell out to Martin and Phillips, or float my shares, I need to know what’s going on.’ She smiled. ‘I’m shrewder than I look, and without Bill’s knowledge I kept up with a lot of the firm’s dealings. Not so much the supplies side – he’d have been down on me like a ton of bricks, but I could always poke around media and marketing.’ She put her head on one side. ‘I could never understand why those two divisions were separate.’

‘Me neither,’ said Libby. ‘I said that yesterday.’

‘Anyway,’ said Monica, ignoring the interruption, ‘what I wanted to know was have you found anything out, and why you were asking questions in the first place.’

Another silence fell. At last, Fran, with a quick glance at Libby, spoke. She explained about Gemma Baverstock’s concerns, Trisha’s vague worries and finally Ian Connell’s request.

Monica kept her eyes fixed on Fran’s face, and when she’d finished speaking, nodded slowly.

‘So it’s official,’ she said.

‘Official?’ said Libby.

‘Your enquiry.’

‘Well – not exactly.’

‘But the police know you’re asking questions.’

‘Yes.’ Libby raised her chin a little. ‘Mind you, we don’t tell them everything.’

Fran shifted on her end of the sofa and Libby ignored her.

‘So you can tell me what you’ve found out?’ said Monica, leaning forward a little.

‘Some of it’s still confidential,’ said Fran quickly, before Libby could speak. ‘Inspector Connell trusts us to keep a lot of the information to ourselves.’

‘Even stuff you’ve found out?’ Monica sounded incredulous.

‘It might be prejudicial.’

‘What about –’ she paused and swallowed ‘John Lethbridge?’

Libby and Fran exchanged another quick glance.

‘You know they found his body?’ said Libby.

Monica nodded. ‘I wouldn’t have. Barry told me.’

‘He was under the impression that Lethbridge had killed your husband.’

‘Yes.’ She nodded again. ‘So was everybody.’ She shook her head, looking down into her lap. ‘So silly.’

‘Silly?’

‘John wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ Monica looked up and away towards the front windows. ‘He was so gentle.’

‘Oh.’ Libby looked helplessly at Fran, who gave a slight shrug. ‘So you never agreed with the official verdict?’

Monica looked back. ‘The police never said they suspected John of Bill’s murder. After the first few times they left me alone.’ She bit her lip. ‘I wasn’t very well, you see.’

‘The first few times?’ said Fran.

‘When they came to question me. Would you like more tea?’ She stood up and Libby and Fran handed over their cups with murmured assent.

‘Would you like to know what happened?’ asked Monica, as she handed their refilled cups back.

‘What happened?’ said Libby cautiously.

‘When they came to tell me I was just about to leave.’ She turned towards the french windows and began pacing.

‘She wants to talk,’ mouthed Fran. ‘Let her.’

‘Leave?’ prompted Libby.

‘For the parade. I always went to the finish, where they danced and had the maypole. And I was just leaving.’ Her voice quavered on the last word. Libby and Fran kept quiet.

‘And they wanted to know when I’d last seen Bill – which was stupid, because I’d seen him when he left two hours before. And after that they came back a couple of times to ask about Bill and Cranston Morris, and John, and their relationship.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I told them, John couldn’t have had anything to do with Bill’s death. They were friends. We were friends.’

‘Did you get on with John’s wife?’ asked Libby.

‘Willy?’ Monica gave a tremulous laugh. ‘I was scared of her. She’s terribly glamorous and a bit – er, well. Have you met her?’

‘No,’ said Fran, ‘but we were hoping to speak to her. Could you introduce us?’

‘Oh, no, she wouldn’t like that,’ said Monica firmly. ‘She never liked me.’

‘What about the night before Bill’s death?’ said Libby after a pause. ‘Do you know anything about what happened then?’

‘That was when they say John was killed, was it?’

‘Yes. Beltane night,’ said Fran.

Monica shook her head. ‘Why would I know anything about that?’ She made a face. ‘Silly business. Jumping over fires. Ridiculous.’

‘You didn’t go, then?’ said Libby.

‘No, I didn’t! I never did. I was never interested in any of the Morris stuff. Especially that Goddess business.’

‘Goddess?’ said Libby and Fran together.

Monica looked confused for a moment, and Libby wondered if she hadn’t meant to mention the Goddess.

‘Oh, you know, the Oak King and all the extra stuff.’ She turned back to the french windows. ‘All the brother and sister gods.’

‘Is that what it is?’ said Libby surprised. ‘I thought the Goddess was the mother figure.’

Monica turned back towards them and shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s all fairly disgusting, isn’t it?’

‘And Bill was into all that, was he?’ said Libby. Fran frowned at her.

‘Yes. He said it was all part of our cultural heritage.’ She came and sat down again in the leather chair. ‘Wilhelmina was always the Goddess.’

‘But Gemma was the Goddess this year, and she doesn’t seem to want to be part of – of – well, all of that.’

‘No. Sensible of her.’ Monica sat up straight and lifted her chin. ‘Wilhelmina had left though. After she and John split up.’

No one seemed to know what to say after that, and eventually, Libby cleared her throat and edged to the front of the sofa.

‘Well, if we’ve answered your questions, Mrs Frensham, I think we ought to go now,’ she said.

‘But you haven’t answered my questions.’ Monica’s voice was tremulous again. ‘You haven’t really told me anything.’

‘I told you everything that’s happened since Gemma Baverstock got in touch with Libby,’ said Fran gently. ‘There isn’t any more.’

Monica’s face twisted. ‘But what about John’s body? You must know more about that?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Fran.

‘Except –’ began Libby.

‘Except what?’ Monica turned to her eagerly.

Libby felt her cheeks growing hot and turned to Fran for help.

‘Where it was found,’ said Fran. ‘In the woods near Steeple Mount.’

‘Woods?’

‘Where they walked to the Mount.’

‘Oh.’ Monica frowned. ‘So that’s when he was killed? When they were walking to the Beltane fire?’

Fran sent Libby a warning look. ‘They think so,’ she said. ‘But you said you knew it was Beltane night just now.’

‘But I don’t see…’ Monica stopped. ‘How did no one notice?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘The police only give us a small amount of information. We’re not part of the inner circle.’

Monica gave a short laugh. ‘Sounds like Cranston Morris,’ she said.

‘Oh?’ said Libby innocently.

‘You already know about the Goddess business, and the Oak and Holly kings. All that incestuous stuff.’ She looked as though there was something rotten under her nose.

‘You’re saying not everyone was part of that? That it was a separate – um – organisation?’

Monica surveyed her shrewdly. ‘I’m sure you know that already.’

Libby’s cheeks began to burn again.

‘I think we ought to be going, Libby,’ said Fran, standing up hastily. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Frensham.’

Monica stood up, a slight figure in pale blue. ‘You’ve spoken to Richard Diggory, haven’t you?’ she said.

‘Yes.’ Libby was on her feet, too. ‘Why?’

‘No reason.’ Monica’s voice was hard. ‘He knows all about the Goddess. You know that.’

‘Er – yes.’ Libby cleared her throat.

Monica looked at her. ‘Yes. He told me.’

‘You’ve spoken to him as well as Barry Phillips?’ said Fran.

‘I’ve spoken to everybody,’ said Monica, moving to the door. ‘And no one will tell me anything.’

Chapter Twenty-six

‘Well!’ said Libby, as she climbed into the car beside Fran. ‘That was a most uncomfortable session.’

‘But telling,’ said Fran, putting the car into reverse. ‘Especially who she’d talked to.’

‘We should have taken Sir Jonathan with us,’ said Libby. ‘He said he liked her, and we did promise him.’

‘She would have gone all sugary if he’d been there,’ said Fran. ‘At least we saw her more-or-less normal.’

‘That was normal?’ said Libby, leaning back out of the way while Fran negotiated the turn into the road. ‘She started out by putting on an act, didn’t she?’

‘Seemed like it,’ said Fran. ‘And she certainly isn’t overcome with grief about her husband.’

‘I couldn’t quite work out what she was concerned about,’ said Libby. ‘John Lethbridge mainly, I thought.’

‘Oh, yes. Even though she made sure we realised that, I think it’s safe to say they were having an affair. Or had had an affair.’

‘Really?’ Libby turned to Fran in surprise. ‘Her?’

‘Not a likely candidate for an affair, you think?’ said Fran with a grin.

‘Well, no. Too thin, and not in the least glamorous.’

‘I bet she’s got hidden depths,’ said Fran. ‘And I’m pretty sure there was something with Diggory, too.’

‘What?’ gasped Libby. ‘Come on, Fran, you’re guessing.’

‘Yes, I am, but it came through very strongly. I think Barry Phillips phoned her, but she phoned Diggory.’

‘So which one is she having an affair with now?’ Libby made a face. ‘Not that I don’t believe you, of course.’

‘I don’t think there’s anyone at the moment,’ said Fran. ‘That was one thing she said that was true.’

‘Frustrated, you mean?’ Libby laughed. ‘I thought that was what she meant, but you said by the firm.’

‘It was a subconscious revelation, I think,’ said Fran. ‘But she is being frustrated by Elizabeth Martin, isn’t she?’

‘Obviously. So she’s got two reasons to hate her; one, Martin had an affair with her husband, and two, she’s trying to prevent her, Monica, from taking over the company.’

‘I doubt if Monica wants to take over the company, she just wants to know what’s going on, which she’s entitled to do as the major shareholder.’

‘Which means she thinks there’s something not quite right going on,’ said Libby.

‘I expect it just means she wants to make sure she’s getting the right payout,’ said Fran.

‘Can they alter that?’ said Libby. ‘Don’t the accountants make the payments?’

‘Creative accounting,’ said Fran. ‘They’ve got an accounts department, and I expect not everything goes through it.’

‘You’re making a lot of assumptions,’ said Libby.

Fran sighed. ‘I know. It all feels right, but you know what I’m like. This is probably my conscious mind telling me what I think should be going on.’

‘It’s logical, though,’ mused Libby. ‘What we really need is a mole in the accounts department.’

‘Libby!’ Fran almost stood on the brakes. ‘Who do you think we are? Some television cop series?’

‘No, sorry.’ Libby was abashed. ‘I get carried away sometimes.’

‘You’re telling me,’ said Fran. ‘Look, all that happened was that Monica Frensham asked to see us because she thought we might know more about her husband’s murder than she’d been told.’

‘She’s right,’ said Libby. ‘We do.’

‘What has not happened is us being asked to look into and find the murderers of John Lethbridge and Bill Frensham. That’s the police’s job, and Ian’s on the case. Just because he’s kind enough to let us in on part of it doesn’t mean we have carte blanche to go galloping through the evidence, or question all the suspects.’ Fran took a deep breath. ‘There.’

Libby stared at her in admiration. ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘You do put things well.’

Fran shot her a narrow-eyed glance. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

‘No. You’re absolutely right. But we’ve done exactly the same as this every time we’ve got mixed up with a murder. And let’s face it, you were keener than I was at the beginning.’

Fran sighed and slowed down to turn into the road leading to Steeple Martin. ‘I know. It’s addictive, that’s the trouble. But in the first two cases we were actively involved. You were even a suspect.’

‘I wasn’t!’

‘Well, you were questioned,’ said Fran. ‘And then it was my aunt who was murdered, so I had a valid reason for being involved.’

‘And after that it was the police who asked you in. And Ian asked you in this time, too. Don’t forget that.’

‘Not until just now, though,’ said Fran. ‘And he warned you off at the beginning.’

Libby shrugged. ‘Oh, well. We’ll just have to carry on doing it as an intellectual exercise again.’

‘And everybody’ll believe that,’ said Fran with a grin.

‘Let’s go over it all back at mine,’ said Libby. ‘Intellectual exercise or not, I’m intrigued. And don’t try and tell me you’re not.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Fran.

A fine rain was falling as Fran pulled up behind the little Renault opposite Libby’s cottage. Sidney appeared at the window as soon as they got out of the car.

‘I swear he knows the sound of every car,’ said Libby, opening the front door and falling down the step.

‘More like November than July,’ said Fran, going to stand by Sidney at the window.

‘Warmer, though,’ said Libby. ‘Tea? Or are you still full of Monica’s dainty cups?’

‘I’d like a decent cup,’ said Fran. ‘Hers was a bit weak, wasn’t it?’

‘Like her,’ said Libby, going into the kitchen.

‘She’s not weak,’ said Fran, following.

‘She’s giving a very good impression, then,’ said Libby.

‘Exactly,’ said Fran. ‘I should think it suited her all this time to be thought of as the little woman at home. And she admitted to being shrewder than she looks, didn’t she?’

‘Not shrewd enough to know what was going on in the business, though.’ Libby got two mugs from a cupboard.

‘But shrewd enough to know there is something. You said that yourself.’

‘You said she just wanted to know the money was right.’ Libby swirled hot water round her teapot.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it. She’s hiding something, and I’m certain it’s to do with John Lethbridge.’

‘They had an affair,’ stated Libby.

‘We think.’

‘And the dreaded Wilhelmina? What about her?’

‘I’d still like to talk to her,’ said Fran. ‘Find out why she left Cranston Morris.’

‘Because she and John split up, I suppose,’ said Libby, pouring boiling water into the pot. ‘But we’re not supposed to be talking to the suspects. You said.’

‘I know, I know. But I’d still like to.’

‘So what else did we find out today?’ Libby got milk from the fridge. ‘Monica and John had an affair, she didn’t like Willy or Elizabeth Martin, both of whom may have had affairs with Bill. John was kind. According to her. Martin and/or Phillips are blocking her from finding anything out about Frensham Holdings.’

‘Martin, not Phillips. He rang her.’

‘I wonder if Lethbridge had any business dealings with Frensham Holdings.’ Libby poured tea into the mugs. ‘He was a financial adviser, wasn’t he?’

‘He could have handled their insurances,’ said Fran. ‘Or their portfolio.’

‘He’d know all about their financial situation, anyway,’ said Libby, her eyes brightening. ‘Could that be why he was killed?’

‘You’re not suggesting Bill killed John and someone else killed Bill in revenge?’

‘Could be the same person,’ said Libby, warming to her theme. ‘Suppose there is something dodgy going on at Frensham Holdings – presumably in the bit that Bill looked after.’

‘Supplies,’ said Fran.

‘Yeah, supplies. Then John finds out – or is involved – and the person who’s behind it all has to kill him. Then Bill finds out so she has to kill him too.’

‘She?’

‘Sorry, I was thinking of Elizabeth Martin.’ Libby sighed and picked up her mug. ‘Suppose that’s too good to be true.’

‘You really didn’t like her, did you?’ said Fran, amused.

‘No, I bloody didn’t,’ said Libby. ‘And she made a pass at my Ben.’

‘If there was something going on at Frensham Supplies Bill would have been sure to know about it,’ said Fran. ‘It isn’t a huge business.’

‘Diggory would know.’ Libby sat on the sofa and moved Sidney.

‘You said you were going to ask him about the Goddess,’ said Fran, ‘but I don’t think you should. He doesn’t strike me as a very savoury character.’

‘You said earlier I should.’

‘I know, but I’ve thought about it and now I don’t think so.’

‘Perhaps it’s him?’ Libby suggested. ‘Perhaps Bill was fiddling the company and –’

‘Oh, come on, Libby! Why would Diggory kill John?’

‘John found out when he was auditing the books?’

‘Financial advisers don’t audit books,’ said Fran.

‘Oh.’ Libby chewed her thumb. ‘Perhaps it isn’t to do with the firm, then. Perhaps it really is to do with the Morris stuff. Or the Goddess cult, anyway.’

‘Or something else entirely,’ said Fran. ‘I wonder which woman it was I could see when we were with Ian yesterday.’

‘Monica? No, she wasn’t there. She said she didn’t go to any of the Morris events except the end of the May Day parade.’

‘She said she didn’t. She could be lying.’

‘Hmm,’ said Libby doubtfully. ‘Then there’s Martin and Wilhelmina. Could be either of them.’

‘I don’t see why Martin would kill John, although I suppose as Wilhelmina was his ex, she might have a motive.’

‘It’s motive all the time, isn’t it?’ said Libby.

‘But the police don’t go for motive first,’ said Fran. ‘They go for means and opportunity. So they’ll have been all through this with everyone, and it looks as though everyone has alibis –’

‘Hey, we don’t know that,’ said Libby. ‘They’ve only just found John’s body. They won’t have checked everybody out yet.’

‘That’s true,’ said Fran slowly. ‘Of course they haven’t. Monica said she wouldn’t have known had Phillips not phoned her.’

‘I wonder if Jane’s heard?’ said Libby. ‘It would have missed this week’s edition, but she could get it on to the Mercury’s website.’

‘We’re not thinking about Jane,’ said Fran, ‘we’re thinking about our suspects.’

‘Would they have told Wilhelmina? After all she was his wife.’

‘That’s another point,’ said Fran. ‘We don’t know if they were divorced or merely separated, do we?’

‘Does it make a difference?’

‘It will if he’s got anything to leave,’ said Fran. ‘If she’s his widow she’ll be entitled to the estate unless there are children.’

‘It all depends on whether she was still dependent on him,’ said Libby. ‘But otherwise it won’t make any difference. She only left last year, didn’t she?’

‘Perhaps you ought to get in touch with Diggory after all,’ said Fran. ‘He’d probably have all the answers, especially if Wilhelmina was the Goddess.’

‘Perhaps.’ Libby looked thoughtful. ‘I could ring while Ben’s here. I’d feel safer.’

‘He’s not going to do anything to you over the phone,’ said Fran. ‘When I said don’t get in touch with him, I meant in person.’

‘I know, but I’d still feel safer. So what else do we know?’

‘We know there’s a subversive branch of Cranston Morris, which it would appear they are glossing over by inviting Gemma and Dan to take leading roles.’

‘Not in the subversive branch.’

‘No, but as Goddess and one of the Kings they’re figure heads. Makes me wonder if they have a real Goddess and King hidden away for nefarious purposes.’

‘Wouldn’t they have taken them with them to Cornwall, though?’ said Libby. ‘They all went off into the woods, so they were indulging in their nefarious practices down there, but they had Dan and Gemma as Goddess and Holly King.’

‘Told you, as cover. Don’t forget Lewis was going to film them.’

‘Oh, yes! I didn’t think of that. But – hang on, Lewis didn’t decide to film them until the last minute.’ Libby finished her tea. ‘I’ll call Diggory tonight.’

‘What will you say?’

‘No idea. I shall wait for inspiration to strike.’

‘You can’t do that. You’ve got to have a cover story. What did you say to him at Harry’s?’

‘I just said I was interested in the Goddess Cult and I would ask Gemma. He said not to do that but to talk to him.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Which means that Gemma doesn’t actually know anything about the Goddess Cult.’

‘We’d already figured that out,’ said Fran. ‘So what will you say?’

‘As I’ve already ridiculed the whole thing it’s going to be difficult. I think I just go in for a bit of nudge, nudge, wink, wink.’

‘Well, be careful.’ Fran put down her mug and stood up. ‘We haven’t got much further have we?’

‘Perhaps we won’t,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps that’s the last we’ll hear about any of it until the police announce they’ve caught the murderer.’

‘Except for whatever Diggory tells you tonight,’ said Fran, and opened the front door. ‘Keep me posted.’

Chapter Twenty-seven

But Diggory was not destined to tell Libby anything that night. Libby tried his phone number, obtained from Gemma on the flimsiest pretext, several times during the evening with no result. Ben, getting tetchy around ten o’clock, suggested sarcastically that she went and staked out the bakery.

‘Not a bad idea, actually,’ she said. Ben snorted.

‘No really. I’ll pop over there tomorrow. It’s Saturday, so there’ll be lots of people around.’

‘So no chance to chat him up about nasty goings-on,’ said Ben.

‘But it will make him see I’m serious,’ said Libby. ‘Make him think so, anyway.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘That would rather defeat the object, wouldn’t it?’

‘You wanted me here tonight.’

‘I know,’ said Libby uncomfortably, ‘but in broad daylight on a Saturday morning I won’t feel so bad.’

Ben sighed. ‘All right. But I could always come and wait in the car, or in a pub.’

Libby brightened. ‘Yes, you could! And I could just be shopping, and be meeting you for lunch.’

‘Don’t push the boat out too much,’ said Ben. ‘I didn’t say lunch was on offer.’

‘Don’t be a skinflint. Anyway, I’ll buy you lunch as a thankyou.’

The following morning the rain had disappeared leaving everything sparkling. Ben went to the Manor to fetch the four-wheel drive, whose existence he justified by driving it over the track and into the top – unmade – of Allhallow’s Lane.

Steeple Mount high street was almost as busy as it had been on the Saturday of the Solstice Parade. Ben disappeared towards the strangely named Bell and Butcher and Libby wandered across the road and tacked slowly towards Diggory’s shop. This time, there were no crowns or other cultish regalia in the window, simply some beautiful decorative loaves and an iced cake covered in bronze roses.

A woman wearing an alice band and pushing a pushchair manoeuvred her way out of the shop looking harassed. Libby hurried to hold the door for her.

‘I suppose they didn’t have pushchairs when this shop was built,’ she said cheerfully. The woman gave her a look and scurried off without saying thank you. ‘Charming,’ muttered Libby, and went inside.

To her surprise, the shop was empty.

‘Hello?’ she called. She heard a chair scrape on the floor and a rustling as the curtain covering the doorway behind the counter was pushed aside.

Diggory, in full old-fashioned baker’s costume, stood in the doorway, his mouth a big O of surprise.

‘Richard!’ beamed Libby. ‘Ben had to come over this way today so I cadged a lift with him. Did you get my messages?’

‘Er – yes.’ Diggory turned his head slightly as if to look over his shoulder. ‘I was going to ring you back.’

‘That’s all right.’ Libby looked round. ‘There’s no one here. You can tell me what I want to know now, can’t you?’

‘Not really.’ Diggory’s colour was changing. Libby thought she’d never met a man whose face went red so frequently.

‘Oh, why not? I only want to know what goes on at your underground meetings.’ Libby gave him her best salacious smile. ‘I found out about another group a couple of years ago, but they were broken up.’ She nodded knowingly at him. ‘I mentioned the Tyne Chapel mob to you before, didn’t I?’

‘So you’re interested are you?’ A woman’s voice came from the back room, followed immediately by a woman. And what a woman, thought Libby.

Tall, with wavy blonde hair and raspberry glossed lips, her figure wouldn’t have looked out of place on page 3 of one of the redtops. Libby gained an impression of a lot of leather and a good sprinkling of lace, before returning her gaze to the sculpted face.

‘Are you Wilhelmina?’ she asked.

Both the man and the woman stared at her.

‘Yeah,’ said the woman eventually. ‘Who wants to know?’ she clicked her fingers. ‘Oh, of course! The person who’s interested in the Goddess. Gemma’s little friend.’

Libby swallowed an instant rush of anger. ‘Hardly little, I feel,’ she said, abandoning any attempt to fool Diggory. ‘And you probably know why I’m here.’

‘I know why you said you were here,’ said Wilhelmina.

‘You have no idea?’ Libby peered at her as closely as she dared. ‘Have the police not been in touch with you?’ She knew Fran would by now be warning her not to say anything else, but she was determined to establish some kind of ascendancy over this woman. Childish, but understandable, she thought.

‘The police?’ Wilhelmina and Diggory exchanged glances, Diggory’s colour fading to white.

‘Why would the police want to talk to me?’ asked Wilhelmina, a catch now in her voice.

With a belated sense of propriety, Libby shook her head. ‘I’d better not tell you until they do,’ she said, aware of how annoying that would be. ‘I don’t suppose Monica’s spoken to you?’

‘Monica?’ Diggory’s voice sounded as thin as a reed. ‘Why?’

‘No, of course she hasn’t.’ Libby was now feeling out of her depth. She really had no excuse to be here asking questions, and now she didn’t know how to extricate herself.

‘Who are you, exactly?’ Wilhelmina started forward and came up against the counter.

‘Libby Sarjeant,’ said Libby. ‘I thought you said you knew who I was?’

Wilhelmina shrugged.

‘Are you still the real Goddess?’ Libby was all interest. ‘I was going to ask Richard about that, wasn’t I, Richard?’ She turned to him with a smile. He smiled weakly back.

‘Oh, come on, Diggory! You didn’t fall for that?’ Wilhelmina swung round and glared at him. ‘She’s nosing around.’

‘That’s why you were in Cornwall, wasn’t it?’ he said. His voice hadn’t recovered. ‘You were trying to find out about us?’

‘No – I told you. I was with my friend –’

‘The telly-poof. I know.’

Libby knew what it meant to have your breath taken away. Stunned, she was silent for a moment.

‘I’d been asked,’ she began, and had to clear her throat, ‘to look into Bill Frensham’s murder.’

This time they both gasped together.

‘But we didn’t have anything to do with that!’ Wilhelmina’s voice was high and reedy now, too. ‘It’s nothing to do with – with –’

‘You? Or the Goddess Cult?’

Wilhelmina looked round desperately at Diggory. He put his head in his hands. Libby frowned.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I don’t actually think you did have anything to do with Bill Frensham’s death, but it looks very much as if you’re afraid of something. What is it?’

Wilhelmina pulled herself together. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘We haven’t got anything to be afraid of.’

‘You might not be afraid,’ said Libby, pointing, ‘but he is.’

Diggory lifted his head. ‘I knew you were trouble that first day at the Solstice Parade,’ he said. ‘Poking around. Nosy bitch.’

Wilhelmina snorted. ‘She’s nothing but a nosy old cow. God, Diggory, how did you get taken in?’

Diggory shook his head. ‘I saw her with that Inspector at the Solstice. And both of them were up at the valley with him the day before yesterday.’

‘Both of who?’ asked Wilhelmina.

‘Her and her spooky friend,’ sneered Diggory.

‘How do you know that?’ said Libby.

‘One of our members lives in Tyne Cottages.’

‘Oh, the pretty little cottages this side of the bridge?’

He gave a look of dislike. ‘Yes. She called me. Wondered what you were doing.’

Libby’s stomach clenched. ‘But there must have been quite a lot of activity round there over the last – um – couple of months. That’s the way you walk to your – er – your festivities, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Diggory’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s been a fair amount of police activity over the last few days, actually. So what’s going on?’

Oh, bugger, thought Libby. Now I’ve lost the initiative. Aloud, she said ‘Continuing their investigations into the – er – incidents, I suppose.’

‘And you think our harmless little group have something to do with it.’ Diggory stood up. ‘Well, you’re wrong.’

‘I told you,’ said Libby, ‘I don’t think you do, actually, but I’m not sure that the Goddess Cult, or whatever name it goes under now, is legal. You were part of that nasty little coven that used to meet at Tyne Chapel, weren’t you?’ She watched as their expressions changed yet again. ‘And you know that the Black Mass is illegal?’

‘Oh, shit,’ said Wilhelmina.

‘So what’s with all this sacrifice business down in Cornwall?’ said Libby, relieved that she seemed to be in charge again. ‘I assume it’s not virgins?’

‘I’m not saying another word,’ said Diggory. ‘You’ll have to arrest me. But I swear on my life, I had nothing to do with Bill’s death. None of us did.’

Libby, congratulating herself on a couple of good guesses, regarded them thoughtfully.

‘So, tell me,’ she said finally, ‘when exactly did you set up the Goddess side of things? And why Goddess?’

They looked at each other.

‘It was Bill’s idea,’ said Diggory. ‘He worked out something with Florian Malahyde.’

‘Who had already written his own script for Mannan Night,’ said Libby. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s all based on fact,’ said Diggory. ‘All the old religions. They’re all related in some way.’

‘Sex,’ said Libby. Diggory went white and Wilhelmina went red. ‘All right. So people were encouraged to join by invoking the “old religions”. And presumably the lure of illicit sex. That’s why they all belonged to that other coven, where Nurse – I mean Joan – Redding died.’

Neither of them said anything.

‘And what about your husband, Mrs Lethbridge? Was he involved?’

‘He went along with it at first,’ said Wilhelmina, ‘but he backed out after a bit. Didn’t like it.’

‘And that’s when you left him?’

‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘After a – after I – after –’

‘After he discovered your involvement as the Goddess was slightly more than he’d anticipated?’ suggested Libby. Wilhelmina looked as though she’d quite like to kill her. ‘I’m surprised you left him. I thought it would be the other way round.’

Diggory sent Wilhelmina a look of dislike. ‘He threw her out.’

‘Ah.’ Libby realised she couldn’t go any further with this without revealing the fact of John Lethbridge’s death. She also wondered what Ian Connell was going to say when he found out about her inquisition.

‘What about the old religion, though,’ she said, determined to get to the bottom of at least one thing before she left. ‘Is it based on Mother Earth, the season, or what?’

Wilhelmina sighed. ‘It’s all the same, really. Everywhere has a different version, but you have the mother who is also the sister and the daughter and the King who is father, brother and son. They all mate and kill each other and rise again. Even that phoney Malahyde’s got some of it right.’

‘And the Morris is part of it?’

‘Developed out of it,’ said Diggory. ‘Bill went into it quite deeply. Fascinating, some of it.’

‘And the Black Mass?’

Diggory’s colour fluctuated again. ‘All to do with fertility,’ he said shortly.

‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way. I think you might get a visit from the police fairly soon.’ She looked away. ‘I hope – I mean…well. Just be aware of it.’

When she emerged on to the high street she discovered she was sweating. Just how much good or damage she’d done she had no idea, but at least she’d confirmed a few things she and Fran had suspected. And surprisingly, she felt sorry for Wilhelmina Lethbridge.

She found Ben in the pub behind a newspaper.

‘At least you’re not hunched over a mobile or an MP 3 player,’ she said, peering over the top at him.

‘Should I be?’ He put the paper down.

‘It’s the way people get news these days,’ she said.

‘Young people get news, not old dodderers,’ said Ben, standing up. ‘What do you want to drink?’

When he returned with her half pint of lager, Libby told him most of what had happened inside Diggory’s bakery.

Ben shook his head. ‘You took a hell of a chance,’ he said. ‘Suppose one of them got nasty?’

‘They were too scared to get nasty,’ said Libby, not really believing it.

‘That’s just when people do get nasty,’ said Ben. ‘And half the stuff you were saying to them –’

‘Was guesswork,’ said Libby. ‘I know.’

‘How on earth did you link them to that Black Mass mob?’

‘It was the chapel, I think,’ said Libby. ‘And it was suggested, can’t remember whether by me or Fran, right at the beginning. It’s the sex angle.’

‘I know, but you had no proof, not even a grain of a suspicion. All you had was your visit to Cornwall and a fertile imagination.’ Ben shook his head again. ‘You’ll be the death of me one of these days.’

‘Or of me,’ said Libby.

Ben covered her hand with his own. ‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,’ he said. ‘Now come on, drink up. I don’t want to stay here any longer. I don’t feel Steeple Mount is a healthy place for you.’

‘Fran’s cousin Charles comes from here, doesn’t he?’ said Libby as they made their way back to the car park. ‘I should have remembered that.’

‘Why?’ asked Ben.

‘He was a bit of a loser, wasn’t he? Seems to breed the wrong sort of people.’

‘Based on Cousin Charles and Richard Diggory?’

‘And the others.’

‘They don’t come from here,’ said Ben. ‘Or at least most of them don’t.’

‘Gemma and Dan do.’

‘Well, they’re not on the list of suspects, are they,’ said Ben, beginning to sound exasperated. ‘Come on, for goodness sake. Let’s pop down to Nethergate and have lunch at The Sloop.’

Chapter Twenty-eight

Fran expressed much the same sentiment as Ben when Libby related the events of the morning. After lunch at The Sloop, Libby dropped in to Coastguard Cottage while Ben went along to Guy’s shop and gallery.

‘We’re no further, anyway,’ said Libby. ‘It doesn’t look as though anyone had a motive to kill Lethbridge except Wilhelmina, and she seems to have fallen on her feet. There was no suggestion that she’d had nowhere to go. And why kill Bill?’

‘Perhaps we’re approaching it from the wrong angle,’ said Fran.

‘You said we had to find the motive for Lethbridge,’ said Libby, ‘that’s what we’re doing.’

‘But there was something Lethbridge was doing – or had done – which we don’t know about.’

‘Exactly – that’s the motive.’

‘But what was he doing? Do you see what I mean? Did he have an affair?’ Fran stopped. ‘Well, we know he did, with Monica. Did he have one with anyone else? And isn’t it odd that he should throw his wife out when he himself was playing away?’

‘Perhaps that didn’t start until after Wilhelmina had gone,’ said Libby. ‘And, we’ve already said, the affair with Monica might give Bill a reason to kill him, but who would then kill Bill?’

‘I suppose Monica might,’ mused Fran.

‘Let’s find out where she was, then,’ said Libby, jumping excitedly out of her chair.

‘And how do you propose we do that? She’s already said she was just about to leave the house when the police came to tell her. I doubt if she’d just got in from stabbing her husband.’

‘You never know,’ said Libby. ‘Were there any civilians around when he was killed? You know – ordinary members of the public?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I’m pretty sure if Monica was there she’d have been recognised.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘Of course she would. So – she was in disguise.’

‘As a black-faced Morris man?’ Fran laughed. ‘How would she have got the stuff off before the police came?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Libby scowled into the fireplace. ‘She’s the only one I can think of, that’s all.’

‘What about Elizabeth Martin and Barry Phillips?’ said Fran.

‘Oh, heavens.’ Libby sighed. ‘Do you think Ian’s going to look into the business?’

‘In case there is something wrong with Frensham Supplies? I don’t know. Does he think there is?’

‘We don’t know, do we,’ said Libby. ‘That’s the problem. And no way in the world that we’ll ever find out.’

‘We had the polis round here today,’ said Harry on the phone when Ben and Libby got back to Allhallow’s Lane.

‘The police? Whatever for?’

‘Drugs!’ said Harry in an underworld voice.

‘What?’

Harry laughed. ‘Apparently, there’s a distribution organisation somewhere in the area and a link in the chain’s been broken.’

‘And what do they think you are? The link or the baron?’

‘Neither. They were asking if I’d ever been offered any by any of our suppliers. Subtly, but that’s what they were asking.’

‘And how do they know this link has been broken?’

‘They’ve been watching someone, apparently, and he – or she, I don’t know – hasn’t followed normal procedure.’

‘Why don’t they ask them, then?’ said Libby. ‘Oh, I suppose they don’t want to alert the big bosses.’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t think they knew who the distributor was for this person they’ve been watching, and if they could track down any more of the customers they could put the finger on him – or her.’

‘Why did they think you might know?’ said Libby indignantly. ‘How dare they?’

Harry laughed again. ‘Because this other person is also in the catering trade. I don’t know what branch, but that’s what they did. Go round to everyone in the area who might have deliveries from a catering supplier of some sort.’

‘Like Richard Diggory,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, come on, Lib! He’s hardly a supplier. He only sells a few of his products to a very few restaurants and delis.’

‘Bet it makes sense, though. Who was in charge of the investigation?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Harry. ‘Just two uniformed cops.’

‘Oh – not even CID?’ Libby was disappointed. ‘Can’t ask Ian, then.’

‘Well, you could. I wouldn’t mind being questioned by him.’

‘Stop it, you flirt,’ said Libby. ‘I shall have to think about this. Thanks for telling me, Harry.’

‘Oh, I knew you’d be interested,’ said Harry. ‘I said the other night you’d got a whole drugs ring set up, didn’t I?’

Libby told Ben what Harry had said.

‘It just seems such a coincidence after what Fran and I were saying earlier,’ she said.

‘But you were talking about Frensham Supplies,’ said Ben, ‘not catering supplies. You can’t have it both ways.’

‘Do you think we ought to talk to Ian about it?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Ben. ‘If he thinks there’s anything to connect either Richard Diggory or Frensham Supplies to a drugs ring or Bill’s murder, he will look into it. Probably already has. You are not the police, my darling, nor are you, as you so frequently say, Miss Marple. I think you’re busy making something out of nothing, and you ought to leave it alone.’ He bent down and kissed the top of her head. ‘Sun’s over the yard arm. What do you want to drink?’

‘Wine, please,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘And I suppose you’re right. I ought to stop thinking about it and concentrate on something else.’

‘Exactly,’ said Ben, fetching red wine from the kitchen. ‘It’s Jane and Terry’s wedding next Saturday, isn’t it? Concentrate on that, instead.’

Libby brightened. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve got to go shopping, haven’t I?’

‘Shopping?’ repeated Ben warily. ‘For a present, you mean?’

‘No, of course not. No, well, of course I will have to buy a present, but I meant a new outfit. I can’t wear the same one I wore for Fran and Guy’s, can I?’

Fran and Libby hit Canterbury on Monday. A morning spent scouring the clothes shops and department stores left them hungry and thirsty and they repaired to the little side street pub where they had first been introduced. Their favourite barman was back, even more outrageously dressed than before, and again asked mournfully after Harry. Libby assured him that Harry and Peter were going from strength to strength and squeezed behind the table with Fran to await their shepherd’s pie.

‘We ought to ask him if he’s on the drugs distribution route,’ she whispered, as the barman disappeared to take their order to the kitchen.

‘Sssh!’ Fran looked round, alarmed. ‘Honestly, Libby, you ought to be more careful.’

‘Well, he could be,’ said Libby. ‘City centre pub, lots of students.’

‘I’m sure the police would have done a thorough search,’ said Fran. ‘If they were asking Harry, you can bet they’ve asked every establishment in the area.’

Libby sighed. ‘I know. And Ben thinks it’s to do with Frensham Supplies, who do office equipment anyway.’

‘Eh?’ Fran frowned. ‘Then why are they asking restaurants?’

‘No – they aren’t connected. It was me connecting things up,’ said Libby. ‘In my usual fashion, apparently.’

‘Bricks and straw,’ said Fran, nodding.

‘You needn’t agree,’ said Libby huffily, and startled the barman by bestowing on him a brilliant smile.

It was no surprise when Ben received a letter later on in the week from Frensham Holdings, informing him that due to circumstances beyond their control, they were unable to accommodate him at Frensham Barn.

‘After the reception I got I’m not surprised,’ said Libby, ‘and I did say you ought to cancel, didn’t I?’

Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, dear,’ he said.

Neither Libby nor Fran heard anything from Ian Connell or anyone connected with the Green Man case all week. Libby spent a lot of time painting in the conservatory and the remainder sitting under the cherry tree in the garden, while Fran spent several days helping in the shop, and the rest exploring Nethergate on foot.

Saturday rolled round, and with it, Jane Maurice’s wedding to Terry Baker. Fran and Guy drove over to Allhallow’s Lane, where they were to stay overnight, and joined Libby and Ben in their taxi. Other members of the Steeple Martin community were invited to the evening reception, even Harry having agreed to take a Saturday evening off from the Pink Geranium.

The guests were directed up the steps at Anderson Place, and to the right of the reception hall, through double doors into what must have once been a formal drawing room, with a large marble fireplace on the left-hand wall and enormous french doors leading onto a balcony, which in turn led on to the imposing front steps. This was where Peter and Harry had celebrated their civil partnership, and, when the registrar came into the room, Libby was delighted to see he was the same small, round man with a jolly, smiling face, who looked as though he’d be more at home in a red suit with white whiskers.

Jane and Terry appeared in the doorway and everyone stood up. For the first time, Libby noticed Jane’s mother, still apparently firmly stuck in the 1950s, by the look of her pale pink two-piece suit and matching hat. She nudged Fran.

‘Mrs Maurice, look.’

‘She doesn’t exactly look thrilled, does she,’ whispered Fran and earned a frown from Guy.

Jane, in a glorious 1920s style dress of oyster satin, paused as they came level with Libby. Moving in front of Terry, she reached across Ben, who sat by the aisle, and kissed Libby’s cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, before turning a brilliant smile on her fiancé and continuing towards the celebrant.

Libby, bright red, with tears ruining her eye make-up, accepted a tissue from Fran and a hug from Ben and tried to concentrate on the short ceremony.

As wedding organiser Melanie had once told Harry and Libby, the happy couple were able to go straight out on to the balcony for photographs, followed by their guests, who drifted down the steps after the obligatory group pictures and across to the marquee where the reception was to be held.

‘Bit bigger than ours,’ said Fran.

‘I liked yours better,’ said Libby, ‘but just look over there!’

‘Where?’

‘That waitress with the tray – the blonde one.’

Fran looked at her. ‘There are at least three blonde ones.’

‘The Marilyn Monroe look-alike,’ whispered Libby. ‘With the very short skirt.’

‘Right.’ Fran nodded. ‘What about her?’

‘I can’t believe the coincidence,’ said Libby, ‘but that’s Wilhelmina Lethbridge!’

Chapter Twenty-nine

‘How embarrassing,’ said Fran, turning away.

‘Embarrassing? Why?’

‘Well, you practically accused her of murder last week. Don’t you think it’s embarrassing?’

‘Oh.’ Libby stared across at Wilhelmina, who was by now smiling brightly at a succession of male guests who had lined up to relieve her of glasses. ‘I think she’s beyond embarrassing.’

‘She might be, but you’re not.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby again. ‘Well, I’ll just have to try and avoid her. I wonder why she’s here?’

‘Working, I should imagine,’ said Fran dryly. ‘The same as Diggory who’s standing behind the buffet table.’

Libby caught her breath and choked. ‘Oh, bugger,’ she said.

Ben appeared at her side and gave her a considering look. ‘Whatever you’re plotting, my love, could I remind you that we’re at a wedding, and our first duty is to the happy couple, who have just arrived to do the receiving line?’

‘Oh, right.’ Libby smiled brightly and straightened her jacket. ‘Come on, then, Fran.’

‘Why is Diggory here?’ she whispered, as they approached the uneven receiving line, consisting of Jane, Terry, Mrs Maurice, hanging back and trying to remain inconspicuous, and Terry’s mother, a small, jolly person wearing a bright pink and blue floating creation that made her look like a plump fairy godmother.

After being presented to both mothers as “the person who brought us together”, and being acknowledged by Mrs Maurice with a baleful eye and a brief ‘We’ve met’, Libby escaped towards a table laden with full champagne glasses.

‘Have one of these,’ said a voice in her ear and she nearly jumped a foot in the air.

‘Willy!’ she gasped. ‘I mean, Mrs Lethbridge.’

‘Willy will do.’ Wilhelmina looked round the marquee and turned her back on the guests, handing Libby a glass as she did so. ‘I’m glad I’ve run into you.’

‘You are?’ Libby took a fortifying swig of the champagne and coughed.

‘You knew about John when you saw us last week, didn’t you?’

Libby risked a quick look at Wilhelmina’s face, which was bent over her tray of glasses. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.’

Wilhelmina shook her head. ‘That’s OK. I understand how suspicious you were.’

‘You do?’ Libby’s eyebrows reached her hairline. ‘I thought I was probably a bit rude. And I certainly jumped to a lot of conclusions.’

‘Yes, you did. But they were mostly right.’ Wilhelmina looked up, and Libby was surprised to see her long eyelashes were wet. ‘And there’s something I ought to tell you.’

‘Should you not tell the police?’

‘I’d rather tell you. After all, you’re in with them, aren’t you?’

‘Er – well – yes.’ Libby crossed her fingers over her handbag. ‘Should I fetch my colleague? She’s just over there.’

‘No.’ Wilhelmina shot a look towards the buffet, where Diggory was in conversation with a tail-coated individual of imposing aspect.

‘Yes, I was going to ask, what’s he doing here?’ said Libby, following her gaze. ‘Come to think of it, what are you doing here?’

‘He does outside catering. Didn’t you know?’ Wilhelmina looked at Libby. ‘That’s why I’m here. He takes pity on me every now and then and hires me as a waitress. I’m crap at it, but it helps with the rent.’

‘Who hires him?’ asked Libby. ‘Anderson Place or the client?’

‘No idea,’ said Wilhelmina. ‘Does it matter?’

‘I suppose not,’ muttered Libby.

‘Anyway, I’d better get moving or he’ll be down on me like a ton of bricks,’ said Wilhelmina, turning to face the guests once more. ‘He won’t want me talking to you.’

‘So why did you want to?’

‘Not now. Can I ring you up? Or come and see you?’

‘When people say that they often don’t do it,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll come to you if you’ll tell me where. And don’t tell anyone you’re going to talk to me, either.’

Scenarios from various television police dramas played through her head showing her pictures of Wilhelmina’s battered body, cut down before she could tell her tale.

‘All right. I’ve got a flat in Nethergate. Just off Marine Parade. “Marine View” it’s called.’

‘I know it,’ nodded Libby.

‘Do you?’ Wilhelmina looked surprised.

‘Yes. I used to know someone who lived in the same road,’ said Libby, omitting any mention of the murderer who had also stayed there. ‘When shall I come?’

‘When you like. Here.’ She fished in the pocket of the tiny apron she wore over her skirt. ‘I scribbled this down when I saw you come in. Ring me.’

Libby looked down at the number scrawled on a scrap of paper. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Please take care of yourself.’

Wilhelmina’s face twisted in a parody of a smile. ‘Sure,’ she said.

Libby took another glass of champagne and went in search of her party. She found them talking to Sir Jonathan, who had put in his usual appearance to check that his guests were happy.

‘Do you hire the caterers, Jonathan?’ she asked after being courteously greeted with a kiss on the cheek.

‘Sometimes, I believe so,’ he replied, his eyebrows raised. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I was surprised to see Richard Diggory here,’ she said.

‘Ah!’ Sir Jonathan twinkled beneath his white eyebrows. ‘Diggory’s bakery supplies us regularly. His catering service is small – he’s only probably here for the cake.’

‘Ah! That makes sense,’ said Libby, turning to where she could see the impressive three-tier construction set on a side table. ‘I didn’t think he would bring waiting staff too, though.’

‘I believe they often bring staff to swell the numbers,’ said Sir Jonathan.

‘Right.’ Libby nodded.

‘What was all that about?’ hissed Fran when Sir Jonathan moved away to talk to the bride and groom.

Libby told her as much as she could of her conversation with Wilhelmina. ‘I suppose it isn’t a coincidence after all,’ she finished. ‘Diggory’s a baker and confectioner – of course he’s likely to have made the cake.’

‘And you’re going to see Wilhelmina?’

‘I hope so. I just kept thinking of all those TV programmes where the witnesses say I’ll tell you all tomorrow, and then are found dead before they can say anything.’ She shivered. ‘Scary.’

‘Perhaps she’ll go home with Diggory tonight and be safe,’ said Fran. ‘Where does she live?’

‘You’ll never guess,’ said Libby. ‘In the same road as Sue Warner. Remember the house called “Marine View” and we said the servants in the attics would have been the only ones who could have seen the sea? Well, that’s it.’

‘Good lord.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Shall I come?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘When I asked if I could bring you over just now she said no, but that was because she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She’s given me her number, so I’ll ring before I go and ask her.’

After the buffet, the speeches and the cutting of the cake, Libby looked round for Wilhelmina, but she was nowhere to be seen. Diggory had taken the cake into the kitchens, presumably to divide it into guest-size pieces. Perhaps Wilhelmina would reappear handing it out.

But neither of them reappeared, and Libby was left wondering if she would, in fact, ever see Wilhelmina again.

After six o’clock, evening guests drifted in and the party took off. Terry’s talented sister unsurprisingly had a cabaret spot during the evening, playing the piano and singing, and a local band supplied danceable music the rest of the time. Jane and Terry floated round the marquee on a cloud of champagne and happiness, and, all in all, Libby thought, it was the third lovely wedding she been to in the last couple of years. The thought did make her wonder if she should be planning her own, but the involuntary shudder it provoked made her reconsider immediately. Poor Ben, she thought, stealing a look at him as he danced gracefully with Jane’s mother, who was visibly thawing.

On the way back to Allhallow’s Lane, as they shared a people carrier taxi back to the village, Libby invited Harry and Peter to join them for a nightcap.

‘She looked lovely, didn’t she?’ said Libby, when they arrived. ‘Gorgeous dress.’

‘All brides are lovely,’ said Guy, sitting on the arm of Fran’s chair. ‘Especially mine.’

‘Oh gawd,’ said Harry. ‘Young lurve.’

‘Not so young, whippersnapper,’ said Guy. ‘You were, though.’

‘Old married couple now, aren’t we, me old dutch?’ He poked Peter with his foot from his place on the hearthrug.

‘Don’t you start taking me for granted,’ said Peter. ‘I’m still a desirable property.’

‘Anyway, I agree with Lib,’ said Fran. ‘She did look lovely. And Terry looked so smart. His mum’s nice, isn’t she?’

‘So’s his sister,’ said Ben, ‘But Jane’s mother. How difficult is she?’

‘We told you that last year,’ said Fran, ‘when we went to see her in London.’

‘And Jane wants her to live with them? She’s mad.’ Harry lifted his glass for a refill.

‘She’s not, you know,’ said Libby getting to her feet and fetching the gin bottle. ‘Her mother would always be on at her to go up to London to look after her as she gets older, and Jane’s still upset that she wasn’t nearer when her aunt died. If her mother’s in the flat downstairs, she’s independent but Jane and Terry are on hand. I think it’s a great idea. I’m busy planting it in Ad’s mind already.’

‘Adam?’ scoffed Harry. ‘He couldn’t look after himself, let alone anyone else.’

‘Come off it, Harry,’ said Peter. ‘He’s a sensible young man, is Adam. And he’s holding down two jobs. Yours and the one at Creekmarsh. And even the flat over the caff’s quite clean and tidy.’

‘Really?’ Libby was interested. ‘Can I come and have a look?’

‘No.’ Harry glared at her. ‘He’d never trust me again.’

‘So,’ said Ben, deeming it wise to change the subject, ‘you found out what Diggory was doing there.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Libby. ‘You were there. It was obvious really.’

‘Diggory?’ said Harry surprised.

‘Who’s Diggory?’ asked Peter, whose life as a journalist in London precluded him from knowing a lot about Libby’s various, and nefarious, doings.

‘He’s a baker,’ said Libby, ‘and he’s involved in this funny cult with Cranston Morris, where Bill Frensham was killed. And he knew John Lethbridge who was also killed. And he’s friends with Lethbridge’s wife, who was there today as a waitress. He made the wedding cake, by the way.’

‘Right,’ said Peter, wrinkling a patrician brow and pushing back a lock of straight blond hair. ‘I think I get all that. Does this mean you two are up to your old tricks again. Miss Marple and Miss Silver join forces?’

‘No!’ said Libby and Fran, while Harry was heard to mutter ‘Miss Silver? Who’s Miss Silver?’

‘Yes, they are,’ said Guy. ‘Libby was asked by a member of this Morris side, then Fran was asked by her old flame.’

‘Oh, yes! I didn’t see him there tonight,’ said Libby, hoping to change the subject again.

‘No,’ said Fran. ‘Jane said he’d sent his apologies, but he was called out.’

‘Well, I’m not terribly distressed about that,’ said Guy, with a grin.

‘Oh, you!’ said Fran, giving him a nudge which nearly sent him off the arm of the chair.

The conversation turned in another direction and Libby relaxed. She didn’t want anyone peering too closely at her proposed activities, which she had a strong suspicion might appear dangerous to those of her friends who had been involved involuntarily in her past escapades. She thought particularly of the adventure last year where she, Fran, Ben and Guy had all been in the way of a murderer, and not only interrupted a failed attempt at burglary, but she and Fran had been attacked personally.

Taking a healthy swallow of scotch, she put it all from her mind and set out to be entertaining.

Chapter Thirty

On Sunday morning Libby braced herself to tell Ben she was going over to Nethergate. She could hardly say she was going to interview a suspect, and as she’d spent most of the previous day, and breakfast that morning, with Fran, she couldn’t use visiting the Wolfes as an excuse.

However, Ben announced as soon as Fran and Guy had left that he was going up to Steeple Farm if Libby didn’t mind, and he would see her at the Manor around one o’clock for lunch.

‘Won’t you come back here to change?’ she asked, surprised.

‘No, I don’t need to. I’ve kept some overalls at the farm. What will you do?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Washing? Change the spare bed?’

‘They’ve only just got out of it,’ grinned Ben. ‘You’re not usually that efficient.’

But he left it at that and disappeared as soon as he’d helped clear away the breakfast things. Libby watched him drive away and then scrabbled in her handbag for Wilhelmina’s phone number.

It rang for a long time, and Libby’s heart was beginning to beat uncomfortably fast when a sleepy voice answered.

‘Wilhelmina?’ said Libby. ‘It’s Libby Sarjeant. You said you’d like to meet. I’m free this morning.’

‘Oh.’ It sounded as though Wilhelmina was struggling to sit up. ‘Sorry I was still asleep. What time is it?’

‘After ten,’ said Libby, trying to keep disapproval out of her voice. After all, she frequently stayed in bed until after ten on a Sunday herself.

‘Do you want to come over, then?’

‘If you still want to talk to me.’

‘Yes,’ said Wilhelmina, her voice stronger. ‘I do. I need some advice.’

‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘Can I bring my friend with me? She’s the clever one in our investigations. I promise you, she’s very discreet.’

‘She the one who sees ghosts?’

‘Ghosts? No. But you’ve obviously heard of her.’

‘Yes.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘She can see things, can’t she?’

‘Some things, yes.’

‘That sounds a bit – well, dangerous.’

‘She’s never actually had a vision of somebody killing someone else,’ said Libby.

‘Right.’ More silence. ‘OK, then. Give me an hour. You know where it is?’

‘I know where it is,’ said Libby, and rang off.

‘Lib, I’ve only just got in,’ complained Fran, when appealed to. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to say to Guy.’

‘You said he didn’t mind you taking an interest. Anyway, won’t he be opening the shop? It’s a summer Sunday – good for trade.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘Where shall I meet you?’

‘On the prom,’ said Libby, ‘And we can always have an ice cream afterwards if we don’t take long.’

Déjà vu, thought Libby an hour later as she waited for Fran on the promenade at Nethergate. In the second adventure she and Fran had together they had come to Nethergate (Fran didn’t live there then) and watched elderly holiday-makers braving the summer weather. It was much the same today, sea whipped up into meringue points, threatening steely clouds in the sky and a nasty little wind blowing up swirls of dust and sweet wrappers. Thank goodness yesterday had been sunny. Libby turned and looked up at Cliff Terrace, where Jane and Terry lived in Peel House. Not that they were there now, of course.

‘Ready then?’

Libby turned to face Fran and beamed. ‘Come on then,’ she said.

Marine View was a tall Victorian house in a terrace. Most of the others appeared to be guest houses, but this one was divided into flats. Libby found the bell marked Lethbridge and pushed.

‘Nothing as fancy as an entryphone,’ she said, as they waited for a response. Eventually the wide front door opened a crack and Wilhelmina’s tousled head appeared.

‘Come in,’ she said, standing back.

Libby and Fran trooped in and waited for her to close the door and lead the way. Libby couldn’t help comparing the way she looked now with the glossy image she’d presented yesterday and last Saturday. Her hair stood out round her head in a halo of spikes, her eye make-up had slipped under her eyes and her lipstick had spread up to her nose and down to her chin. Grey sweat pants and a grubby T-shirt completed the effect. Exchanging glances with Fran, she followed Wilhelmina up the stairs.

The flat was on the first floor. The front room had tall windows and a beautiful fireplace which had been boarded up. Wilhelmina sat down on a sagging sofa and indicated chairs on the other side of the room.

‘This is Fran Castle,’ said Libby.

‘Wolfe,’ said Fran.

‘Oh, yes. I keep forgetting. Fran Wolfe. She’s just got married.’ Libby leant forward. ‘So, what did you want to talk to us about? You said you wanted advice.’

‘Yes.’ Wilhelmina tucked her feet under her and examined her nails. ‘You know my husband was killed.’

‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘On Beltane night. Before Bill Frensham was killed.’

‘Yeah. So it couldn’t have been him, could it? John, I mean. He couldn’t have killed Bill?’

‘Of course not,’ said Libby.

Wilhelmina shifted uncomfortably. ‘Only you see, I went to see him that day.’

‘The day he died? Have you told the police?’ said Fran in a surprised voice.

‘No. That’s why I wanted advice.’

‘But why me?’ said Libby. ‘You were fairly angry with me last week.’

‘But you were right.’ Wilhelmina’s colour was rising. ‘We were all part of this Goddess thing, and Bill and Diggory had got it all tied up with some coven thing.’

‘I knew it,’ said Libby.

Wilhelmina looked up under her brows. ‘Yeah. Some black magic thing that happened and they broke up.’

‘And reformed as the Goddess cult as an offshoot of Cranston Morris,’ said Libby.

‘John joined in, but he didn’t like it when I got too friendly with people, especially Bill.’ She was looking down at her hands again.

‘And Diggory?’ said Fran.

‘Only since John left,’ said Wilhelmina. ‘Bill and I had broken up by then.’

Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘Really what?’ Wilhelmina looked belligerent.

‘You’d broken up?’

‘He was off with that woman from his work, wasn’t he.’

‘Ah, yes. Anyway, you went to see John the morning he died, you were saying,’ said Fran.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I needed money.’ Wilhelmina lifted her chin.

‘So what do you need advice about?’ Libby was frowning. ‘You can tell the police that, can’t you?’

‘Not that.’ Wilhelmina stood up. ‘I’m going to have a coffee. Want one?’

Libby and Fran both shook their heads and she wandered off, presumably into the kitchen, leaving them looking at each other in puzzlement.

‘What’s she on about?’ said Libby quietly.

‘Something he told her, I expect,’ said Fran. ‘She’s working up to telling us.’

Wilhelmina returned carrying a large blue mug.

‘You were saying?’ prompted Libby.

‘Well.’ Wilhelmina sighed, took a sip of coffee and winced. ‘See, it was John. He said he couldn’t give me much at the moment but he would soon.’

‘Meaning?’ said Libby, after a pause.

‘I don’t know. He was angry.’ Wilhelmina looked up. ‘This is why I thought I’d talk to you.’

Libby regarded her silently for a moment, then heaved a deep sigh.

‘Look, Willy,’ she said, ‘let’s get this straight. You’re not making much sense at the moment. Start from the beginning. You were married to John Lethbridge. He and Bill Frensham were friends, right?’

‘Some kind of business connection,’ said Wilhelmina. ‘They knew one another before we got married.’

‘Right. So did Bill suggest you both joined the coven?’

‘I never belonged. I think John did, but there was this murder, you see –’

‘We know about the murder,’ said Fran.

‘Oh, do you?’ Wilhelmina looked surprised. ‘Well, anyway, then John suggested this Goddess thing, and it sounded fun, you know, one up from wife swapping. Sort of gave it an extra – I don’t know – thrill, somehow.’

‘And you got too friendly with Bill Frensham?’ said Libby.

‘Yeah, well, he and me were the King and the Goddess and we had to do it.’ She paused, gazing out of the window. ‘In front of the others, too. They all pretended it was sort of religious, but it wasn’t. They just used to get turned on and go off and shag each other.’

Libby glanced sideways at Fran’s pained expression. ‘So you and Bill carried on outside the group?’ she said.

Wilhelmina nodded. ‘And John found out and I left. The he took up with that Monica. To pay Bill out, I reckon.’

‘And Diggory?’

‘Oh, he’d always fancied me. We thought we might as well, but we had to keep it sort of secret because Richard was still in the group. But they couldn’t get another Goddess like me, see?’

‘Gemma certainly wouldn’t be up for it,’ said Libby.

‘Well, no. But they had to keep the Goddess and King stuff going or the others would wonder what was going on.’

‘The ordinary Morris dancers, you mean, the ones not involved in the – er – cult.’

Wilhelmina nodded again.

‘So what happened then?’ asked Fran after a short silence.

‘Diggory wouldn’t help me with any money,’ said Wilhelmina, ‘said he’d got a lot of other things on his plate. He was investing in his business, or something.’ She shrugged. ‘He always seemed to be out, if you ask me. Doing deliveries, he said.’

‘Of his bread?’ asked Libby.

‘Yeah. So I thought I’d go and see John.’ She looked down at her mug again. ‘And he was – I don’t know – strange. Different.’

‘You said angry?’ said Libby.

‘Yeah. He kept striding about the place and saying things.’

‘Saying what?’

Wilhelmina’s eyes slid sideways. ‘Not really sure. Kept saying it was disgusting.’

‘What was?’ said Libby and Fran together.

‘I don’t know. Then he was talking about – you know – that night.’

‘Beltane? He meant to go?’

‘Well, he did go, didn’t he? He was still a Morris dancer.’ Wilhelmina’s tone indicated that Morris dancing was on a par with drain cleaning.

‘So what was disgusting?’ pursued Libby.

‘I’ve told you, I don’t know.’ She looked up at Libby and quickly away again. ‘He mentioned Bill.’

‘He said Bill was disgusting?’ Libby was bewildered.

‘I’ve told you! I don’t know!’ reiterated Wilhelmina, suddenly standing up. ‘What I want to know is, do I tell the police?’

‘Well, of course you should, even if it does seem insignificant to you,’ said Libby. ‘They’ll want to know if he mentioned seeing anyone, or if he knew he would be doing something different that night. They’ll also –’ Libby stopped as a thought struck her.

‘Also what?’ asked Fran.

‘Also be pleased to know that he was alive that afternoon,’ said Libby slowly.

‘Course he was,’ said Wilhelmina. ‘He was killed at night, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Libby gave her a small smile. ‘But they’ll still be pleased to know.’ She contemplated her hands for a moment. ‘So why did you need my advice about this, Willy? You knew what you should do. What is it you aren’t telling us?’

‘Nothing.’ Wilhelmina sat down again. ‘I just don’t have experience with the police. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Were you frightened?’ asked Fran softly.

Wilhelmina looked up quickly.

‘You are, aren’t you?’ said Libby. ‘What of?’

‘I’m not scared,’ said Wilhelmina in a shaky voice. ‘I just didn’t know – didn’t want – well, I didn’t. I just didn’t.’

‘Were you scared of other people like Diggory finding out if you spilt the beans about the Goddess business?’ asked Libby.

Wilhelmina’s colour started changing again. She and Diggory were like human rainbows, thought Libby.

‘That’s what it is, isn’t it?’ said Fran. ‘Well, I don’t see why you should be scared, but you can rest assured we won’t tell anyone.’

‘Right.’ Wilhelmina was looking down again. ‘So what do I do?’

Libby looked at Fran. ‘Would you like us to get in touch with the police for you?’ she said. Fran sighed.

‘Yeah.’ Wilhelmina looked up. ‘Will they come here?’

‘I don’t know. They might want you to go to the police station,’ said Libby. Wilhelmina seemed to shrink. ‘I expect they’ll come here, though,’ she continued hastily. ‘They usually do. Haven’t they been here to talk to you already?’

‘Yeah. Last Saturday after I’d seen you, Diggory was here with me.’ Her eyes slid sideways again.

‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘Well, I’ll – we’ll – get in touch with the police and they’ll make an appointment to come and see you.’ She stood up. ‘Was there anything else?’

Wilhelmina shook her head.

‘We’ll be on our way, then,’ said Fran, also standing up. ‘Thank you for talking to us, Wilhelmina, and don’t worry.’

Out on the pavement, Libby let out a long breath. ‘Cor,’ she said. ‘That was a bit difficult, wasn’t it?’

‘She’s hiding something, isn’t she?’ said Fran, beginning to walk back towards the seafront.

‘Sure she is,’ agreed Libby, ‘but hadn’t we better phone Ian before she changes her mind about speaking to the police? I almost wanted to camp out there until they turned up.’

Fran nodded. ‘For a variety of reasons.’

‘Really?’

‘Just let me call Ian,’ said Fran, pulling out her mobile.

Libby waited impatiently while Fran left a message on Ian’s personal mobile and another at his office. ‘What then?’ she said as Fran put the phone away. ‘What other reasons?’

‘Do you want that ice cream?’ asked Fran as they reached the promenade.

‘No! I want you to tell me what you mean,’ said Libby, leading the way to a bench overlooking the beach.

‘She was scared. We both agreed that.’ Fran brushed the worst of the damp from the bench with a tissue before sitting down. ‘She’s scared that someone will find out she’s been talking.’

‘Who, though? Diggory? What they’re doing isn’t illegal is it? I mean, I know I told them last week the Black Mass was illegal, but it doesn’t sound as though they’re doing that. In fact, apart from the Cornish goings-on, it doesn’t sound as though they’re doing much at all. Why should anyone worry if the police found out about a bit of extra-marital shenanigans?’

‘I’m not sure it’s just that,’ said Fran. ‘She’s scared of something else. I think Lethbridge said more to her that day than she’s telling us.’

Libby frowned. ‘Even if he did, nobody knows. Why is she scared?’

‘Because of what he said. If he told her something was going on and she was – oh, I don’t know – in the firing line?’

‘In that case the best thing she could do would be to tell the police. Then they can go and arrest whoever it is,’ said Libby.

‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that,’ said Fran. ‘And unless she tells the truth, which she probably won’t, I would think she’s in danger.’

Chapter Thirty-one

‘What did you mean,’ said Fran, as they parted at Libby’s car, ‘when you said the police would be glad to know he was alive in the afternoon?’

‘It suddenly occurred to me that he could easily have been killed earlier in the day. It didn’t have to be during the Beltane thing.’

‘But he was in full black-faced regalia,’ said Fran. ‘And it felt dark when I first – well, saw him.’

‘It threw her, though,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think she was doing something she shouldn’t?’

‘I think she spends a good deal of her time doing things she shouldn’t,’ said Fran. ‘I just want to know what Lethbridge was talking about.’

‘If she was telling the truth,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, I think she was,’ said Fran. ‘About him being angry, anyway. And about calling Frensham disgusting.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘A bit pot and kettle if you ask me.’ Libby unlocked Romeo’s door. ‘I must get going. I said I’d meet Ben at the Manor at one o’clock. Let me know when you hear from Ian.’

It wasn’t until Libby and Ben had stopped off at Peter and Harry’s cottage on the way home from the Manor that Libby’s mobile rang.

‘I thought you’d be home by now,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve just left a message on the landline.’

‘No, we often stop off at Pete and Harry’s,’ said Libby. ‘What’s up? Did you hear from Ian?’ She struggled out of her sagging armchair and making “excuse me” signs in the air wandered into Harry’s kitchen.

‘I did. He was quite nice about it.’

‘Has he followed it up, though?’

‘He said he would. Said it was “interesting”. He asked if we had any ideas about Frensham being disgusting, too.’

‘Perhaps he should ask Monica,’ said Libby, ‘although I can’t see her answering. And she said Lethbridge was kind, didn’t she? Perhaps he meant the way Frensham treated his wife was disgusting?’

‘But hadn’t that affair stopped? Lethbridge and Monica, I mean?’

‘Do we know that?’ Libby frowned. ‘Or did we assume it?’

‘Oh, heaven knows,’ said Fran wearily. ‘Let’s leave it to Ian. Nothing we can do about it now.’

Libby switched off her phone and stood staring at Harry’s colourful shelves.

‘Whassup, petal?’ He came in and picked up various bottles from the dresser. ‘Still figuring out whodunnit?’

‘More or less.’ She grinned at him. ‘But Fran and I have dumped everything in Ian’s lap and now it’s up to him.’

‘That’ll be the day,’ said Harry. ‘Come on, now, drinkie-poos time. Wine or whisky?’

It was Monday morning before Libby heard from Fran again. Twice she’d dialled her number, but both times it was engaged. Knowing her friend’s habit of forgetting her mobile entirely, she didn’t bother trying to ring that. Instead, after a little desultory dusting, she went into the conservatory and stared at paintings for a while. When the phone rang, she jumped.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said.

‘Were you expecting someone else?’ said Fran.

‘No, it’s just I’ve been trying to get hold of you this morning and you were engaged.’

‘Sorry, I’m sure,’ said Fran, laughing. ‘I expect I was talking to Ian.’

‘What did he say?’ Libby went into the kitchen and moved the kettle onto the hotplate.

‘He interviewed Wilhelmina last night.’

Libby let her breath out in a whoosh. ‘That’s a relief,’ she said. ‘I was dreading him finding her dead body instead.’

‘I know. But apparently after I spoke to him he called her and she was still there, so he arranged to go round in the evening. Told her not to go out. But apparently she said she wasn’t moving from the flat anyway.’

‘She was scared. So what did she say?’

‘As far as I can make out, exactly what she told us. It hasn’t taken him much further, he says, except he’s now wondering what it was about Bill Frensham that was disgusting, too. I told him you said he should ask Monica, and he said he intended to.’

‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall in that interview,’ said Libby. ‘Anything else?’

‘Well, there was one thing that he wasn’t sure about. Apparently, Wilhelmina said that Lethbridge had said something like “positively Wagnerian”. She didn’t say that to us, did she?’

‘No,’ said Libby, slowly. ‘Was she referring to Frensham, or what?’

‘Lethbridge said it while he was ranting and muttering, she said. She didn’t get “Wagnerian” right, but Ian eventually translated it.’

‘Perhaps he was referring to her,’ suggested Libby doubtfully. ‘You know, her name. Wilhelmina sounds Wagnerian, doesn’t it?’

‘Maybe, but I don’t think Ian thought so. Any ideas?’

‘Not right now,’ said Libby. ‘If you refer to something as “positively Wagnerian”, what would you mean? Very heavy and long?’

‘That sounds like a crowbar,’ said Fran. ‘What did he write?’

‘Um, the Maestersingers? Was that him?’

‘Oh, yes, of Nuremburg. Wasn’t it? And the Ring Cycle.’

‘Oh, of course. Brunnhilde, the one with the plaits and the breastplate.’ Libby giggled. ‘That’s what you’d call Wagnerian. The voice.’

‘Hmmm. Well, perhaps if Wilhelmina was going on at him and her voice got out of control that’s what he meant?’

‘Willy’s voice just gets brash and hard. Sort of high,’ said Libby, ‘not what you’d call Wagnerian.’

Fran sighed. ‘I don’t know, then. He said would we think about it. Seemed to think it meant something.’

‘Perhaps he was fond of opera. Could we ask Monica, do you think?’

‘I expect Ian already has. I’ll call him and tell him what thoughts we’ve had so far and then ask him.’

‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘Call me as soon as you know.’

She switched off the phone and stood staring at the kettle, now emitting irritated puffs of steam. She moved it back off the hotplate and turned to the window. Now she didn’t know what to do.

‘Women,’ she muttered to herself, turning back to the sitting room. ‘That’s what Fran thought. Something to do with a woman. Which woman? Monica? Wilhelmina? Or Elizabeth Martin?’

She stood stock still. Of course! Elizabeth Martin! With her statuesque looks and fiery red hair. Wagnerian.

So how could she get to Elizabeth Martin? Both she and Ben were persona non grata at Frensham Holdings, even with the pleasant Barry Phillips, she suspected. Perhaps she could talk to Trisha?

The phone rang again.

‘Libby, it’s Ian.’

‘Blimey,’ said Libby, not bothering to hide her surprise. ‘What do you want?’

‘That’s a fine way to greet an old friend,’ said Ian, sounding amused.

‘You’re not an old friend,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve only known you a couple of years.’

‘Don’t quibble. Now listen. I know I said I didn’t want you anywhere near this case, but, as usual, you and Fran have proved yourselves useful. So I want you to do something else for me. Completely off the record, of course.’

‘What? I don’t have my handcuffs with me, currently.’

‘I want you to talk to Monica Frensham.’

Libby felt a frisson of apprehension. ‘Why? What about?’

‘Because she’ll probably know what Lethbridge meant about being Wagnerian. Did he actually know his opera or was it just a phrase – a cliché.’

‘I was just thinking about that,’ said Libby. ‘I wondered if he was referring to Elizabeth Martin. She’s a fiery redhead. Could that be Wagnerian?’

‘The avenging warrior queen. Yes, I suppose so.’

‘But I don’t see what he had to do with her. Or whether he was just talking about Frensham having had an affair with her.’

‘No – unless there was some reason he shouldn’t have.’

‘Of course there was,’ scoffed Libby. ‘He was married.’

‘But Lethbridge had an affair with Frensham’s wife. He was in no position to disapprove.’

‘I see what you mean,’ said Libby. ‘You mean another criminal reason?’

‘I don’t know either, but yes,’ said Ian. ‘But meanwhile, I want you to ask Monica if she knows what Lethbridge meant. Will you do that?’

‘Just me?’ squeaked Libby. ‘Without Fran?’

‘Fran’s got cold feet, I think,’ said Ian. ‘She sounded very distant just now.’

‘Perhaps she was being tactful because Guy was there.’

‘I didn’t think he minded her getting involved in your Miss Marple outings?’ said Ian, in some surprise.

‘He doesn’t, but I think he’s still a bit jealous of you,’ said Libby. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying.’

Ian chuckled. ‘Not at all.’

‘So again, pardon me for asking, but why aren’t you going to talk to Monica?’

‘Because it’s a very small question within a very big case, and I’m snowed under. We’ve also got this drugs distribution ring we’re trying to track down at the moment, which, of course, I didn’t tell you about.’

‘No.’ Libby nodded to herself sagely. ‘Of course not.’

‘So, will you do it?’

‘Yes.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘As soon as possible, I suppose?’

When Ian had rung off, she frowned at the phone wondering if she should call Fran. How would she feel if Ian asked Fran to do something without her? Which of course, he had done, earlier in their association. But Fran had always apprised her of whatever the situation was. She punched in the number.

‘He said you sounded distant,’ said Libby, when she’d finished telling Fran what Ian had asked her to do.

‘Nothing to do with him,’ said Fran. ‘Chrissie’s here.’

‘Omigod.’

‘Quite. Can you cope on your own? I’ve got something you might want to hear, so I’ll call you as soon as I’m able.’

‘You don’t want moral support?’

‘I don’t think she’d appreciate that,’ said Fran, with a sigh. ‘She’s just sent Guy off with a flea in his ear.’

‘Bloody cheek!’

‘I know, but the quicker I listen the quicker – I’ll have to go.’

‘OK. Speak to you later.’ Libby switched off the phone and frowned at it again. Whatever did Chrissie want? She sighed and went back to the kitchen. Time to formulate a plan.

The trouble was, Libby wasn’t good at formulating plans. She needed Fran there to bounce ideas back and forth. The first thing, she supposed, was whether to ring Monica first or not. She could always ask her the question over the phone, although she rather thought Ian would want her to do it face to face. Anyway, it was a start.

‘Will you be in this afternoon?’ asked Libby, after introducing herself.

‘Yes, up till about three,’ said Monica. ‘Why?’

‘Inspector Connell has asked me to ask you a couple of questions,’ said Libby.

‘Did he not want to ask them himself?’ Monica’s voice had turned frosty.

‘He’s so busy – working on your husband’s death, of course – and as this is a tiny little query he deputised me.’

‘Oh.’ Monica went quiet. ‘Nothing very serious, then?’

‘It could be,’ said Libby. ‘Can I pop over, then? I won’t keep you long.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Monica grudgingly, ‘but make it before two thirty. I’m supposed to be at Anderson Place just after three.’

‘Oh, really? Are you going to see Sir Jonathan? He told me he had quite a soft spot for you.’

‘Did he?’ Monica audibly softened. ‘You know him, then?’

‘Oh, yes, quite well. Give him my love. I actually saw him on Saturday, but not for long enough.’

‘I tell you what,’ said Monica, obviously thinking as she spoke, ‘why don’t you come over here and ask your questions, then we could both go and have tea with Sir Jonathan.’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Libby, ‘but I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

‘Oh, you wouldn’t be,’ said Monica blithely. ‘He’d be delighted, you know he would.’

‘All right then,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll be at yours around a quarter to three. OK?’

How surprising, she thought, as she went into the kitchen to find herself some lunch.

The journey took slightly longer this time than last, partly because Libby was distracted by some particularly lovely views, which she had to stop and look at. This was the part of Kent the tourists didn’t see, the tiny lanes that would give Devon a run for its money. The real country, with real country people, real farmers and real villagers, not incomers (she felt a pang of guilt at this) who bought up and prettified the cottages and priced the locals out of the market. Or built houses like this, she thought, as she turned once more onto Monica Frensham’s gravelled drive.

Monica, in pale green to match her furniture, opened the front door, a sparkling smile on her face.

‘So nice to see you again!’ she said. ‘Do come in for a moment. I won’t offer tea, as we’ll have some at Anderson Place.’

‘Thank you,’ said Libby, sitting in the same place as before. ‘It was very nice of you to agree to see me.’

Monica shrugged. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve hardly seen anybody. At first I couldn’t bear to talk to anyone, except the children, but now I wouldn’t mind some company, most people seem afraid to talk to me. That was why I was so grateful to receive Sir Jonathan’s invitation.’

‘He’s an old sweetie, isn’t he?’ said Libby, and found herself telling Monica about her previous adventure involving him and Anderson Place. ‘And he’s already offered to help with this investigation,’ she finished.

‘Really? You’ve talked to him about it?’ Monica’s tone became fractionally colder.

‘Oh, no, not really. You see Fran and I were at a hen party there and one of the other guests worked for your husband’s company.’ Libby hoped this rather incomplete version of events would satisfy Monica. It did.

‘Oh, I see!’ she said. ‘Who was it? Might I know them?’

‘A girl called Trisha,’ said Libby. ‘I think she works for Barry Phillips?’

Monica was frowning. ‘Trisha? Is she blonde?’

‘Ye-es. Rather a nice girl. A bit – um – ditsy, I suppose you might call it. She used to work with the girl who was getting married.’

‘Ah, yes!’ Monica’s face cleared. ‘Not that I know her well, of course, but I did meet her. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?’

‘Well, it’s a bit delicate,’ said Libby, clearing her throat. ‘We need to ask you something about John Lethbridge.’ She stopped as she saw Monica’s face change. ‘No, please, it’s just that you knew him better than anyone else we’ve talked to.’

‘Except Wilhelmina,’ said Monica.

‘That’s just it. We and the police have talked to Wilhelmina, and we rather think you knew him better than she did.’

A faint expression of gratification passed over Monica’s face. ‘In some ways,’ she said.

‘He made a comment, in Wilhelmina’s hearing, about something being positively Wagnerian. Now,’ said Libby, leaning forward, ‘this probably sounds pathetic and petty, but she had no idea what he meant, didn’t even know what Wagnerian was. In view of the comment, the police would like to know if John really knew Wagner, or if it was just a – a – oh, you know, a well-known phrase or saying.’

Monica frowned. ‘You’re right, it does sound pathetic and petty, but I’ll take your word for it. John loved opera. It was one taste we shared, although I prefer the ballet. So if he described something as Wagnerian, that’s what he meant. In the true sense of the word.’

‘And what would that be? In your opinion, of course.’

‘Wagnerian? Oh, large, grand. In fact Grand Guignol, almost. Perhaps without the horror.’

‘We thought of Brunnhilde,’ said Libby. ‘She’d be the female personification of Wagnerian, wouldn’t she?’

‘She would!’ Monica clapped her hands, delighted. ‘You know your Wagner, too, then.’

‘The Ring Cycle, yes,’ said Libby modestly, not admitting that her knowledge was based on the extremely funny Anna Russell explanation she had on a CD at home.

‘Have you ever seen it?’

‘No,’ said Libby, ‘and I can’t say I’d want to sit through all twenty hours at once, either.’

‘You have to do it on consecutive days,’ said Monica. ‘We did it – John and I – about a year ago.’ She bowed her head. ‘When we were getting to know each other.’

‘Oh.’ Libby made a face. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean –’

‘It’s all right.’ Monica looked up. ‘He wasn’t mine, was he. I shouldn’t be mourning him. I have my husband to mourn.’

Oh, goodness, thought Libby.

‘Anyway,’ Monica went on, sitting up straight and smoothing her brown hair, ‘that’s what John would have meant.’ She paused, looking thoughtful.

‘Have you thought of something?’ asked Libby, after a moment.

‘No.’ Monica’s eyes refocused. ‘Sorry. I was just remembering. Shall we go?’

You weren’t just remembering, thought Libby, as she stood up. You just thought of something. I wonder what it was?

Chapter Thirty-two

They took both cars, although Monica offered to drive Libby, but Libby wanted the means to make a quick getaway. As Monica had predicted, Sir Jonathan was delighted to see Libby, and took them upstairs to his room on the first floor, where tea things had already been laid out.

‘I’ll just boil the kettle,’ he said disappearing into a cubbyhole at the other end of the room.

‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it,’ said Monica, gazing round.

‘He’s got an apartment right at the top of the building, too,’ said Libby. ‘I think he’s been very clever turning what could have been an albatross into such a thriving business.’

‘I didn’t do it all on my own, you know.’ Sir Jonathan came up behind them, beaming at Libby. He put the silver teapot down on the tray.

‘So, my dear, thank you for coming to see me.’ He handed Monica a cup. ‘I was so sorry when I heard of Bill’s death. He was a good customer who became a friend. A good supplier, too, of course.’

‘Was he?’ Monica looked puzzled.

‘He set up their website,’ said Libby. ‘And did the marketing.’

‘And office supplies, of course,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘Always came personally to see me, even though I don’t really have anything to do with the business. Our Melanie came via Frensham Holdings, as well.’

A light went on inside Libby’s head. Why hadn’t she thought of asking Mel?

‘I’m afraid I didn’t realise,’ Monica was saying. ‘I only ever came here to functions. Bill never discussed the business with me. That’s why –’ she stopped.

Sir Jonathan quirked an eyebrow at Libby, who made a face.

‘Why you want to find out what’s going on there?’ she suggested.

‘Exactly.’ Monica turned to her in relief. ‘I told you, didn’t I? That Elizabeth Martin is making it very difficult.’

‘Forgive me, my dear,’ said Sir Jonathan, ‘but surely you’re now the majority shareholder?’

‘That doesn’t mean to say they can tell me what’s going on,’ said Monica. ‘I think Barry – Mr Phillips – would, but Mrs Martin, well, she just wants to keep me out of everything.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know what she doesn’t want me to find.’

Sir Jonathan frowned. ‘I wish I could help,’ he said, shooting another interrogative glance at Libby. ‘I don’t know the lady well enough.’

‘You’ve met her, though?’ Monica looked up.

‘Oh, yes, at functions here, like yourself. I got the impression that she was taking over the supplies part of the business.’

‘From whom?’ Monica’s voice went right up the scale.

‘Well – your husband –’

‘I meant who did you hear it from?’

‘Ah – I’m afraid I don’t know.’ He was looking uncomfortable now. ‘Someone in the office, I assume.’

‘That’s all right, Monica, we can find out,’ soothed Libby. ‘Don’t worry about it now.’ She smiled brightly at Sir Jonathan. ‘Lovely cake,’ she said, taking a slice.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Monica, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know what gets into me.’

Libby patted her hand. ‘Your husband was murdered, that’s what’s got into you. It’s enough to cope with by itself, without any added business complications. Now, cheer up and have some of this lovely cake.’

The tea party then resolved itself into more conventional terms. Sir Jonathan was the perfect host and treated Monica like precious china, so much so that by the time Libby deemed it suitable to take her leave, she was quite happy to stay when Sir Jonathan pressed her to a fresh pot of tea. Libby said goodbye and was accompanied to the door by Sir Jonathan.

‘Thank you for smoothing over the awkward moment,’ he said quietly. ‘I wasn’t sure what to do.’

‘She’s desperate to find out what’s going on in the company,’ whispered Libby, ‘and to find out what happened to the man who they thought was Bill’s killer.’

‘And wasn’t he?’

‘No, it turns out he was already dead,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, dear.’ Sir Jonathan pulled at his white moustache. ‘I’ll do what I can to keep her mind off it. But I really think they ought to let her into the business.’

‘So do I,’ said Libby, ‘but they aren’t keen on anyone getting inside, customers or shareholders.’

‘Oh?’ Sir Jonathan raised his eyebrows. ‘We’ll have to see about that, or I’ll be changing my suppliers.’

‘Is it all right if I pop in to see Mel?’ asked Libby.

‘Of course.’ Sir Jonathan kissed her cheek. ‘Take care, my dear.’

All that old world charm, thought Libby, as she walked down the staircase. If only I were older.

Melanie was found in her office at the end of the main corridor on the ground floor, looking far more like the Mel Libby had first met with Harry. Obviously not on front of house duties today, she was dressed in torn jeans, a studded leather collar and a T-shirt.

‘I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Frensham Holdings, actually, if you don’t mind,’ said Libby, after the niceties were out of the way.

Mel put her booted feet on the desk and raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh? Mrs Sarjeant Investigates?’

‘Oh, you’ve heard.’

‘We could hardly avoid it, could we? So what do you want to know?’

‘I’m not really sure,’ said Libby. ‘Anything you remember from your days working for them.’

Mel put her feet down and leant her elbows on the desk. ‘I didn’t work for them,’ she said. ‘I worked for another of their clients. And I find this job far more congenial. More freedom. As far as I could see they didn’t ever seem to let anybody know what was going on.’

‘Mmm.’ Libby nodded. ‘That’s what Mrs Frensham’s finding now.’

‘Mrs Frensham?’ Mel looked surprised. ‘In the business?’

‘Well, no,’ said Libby. ‘They won’t let her get near it, even though she’s the majority shareholder.’

‘She was never interested before. At least that’s what we were told. And Elizabeth Martin would never let anyone near old Bill, anyway.’

‘Were they having an affair back then?’

‘We all thought so, but there was another woman as well. We saw her a couple of times.’

‘Blonde? A bit tarty?’

‘That’s her.’

‘Wilhelmina Lethbridge,’ said Libby, and told Mel all about it.

‘We’ve had a couple of deliveries of office supplies since Bill died,’ said Mel when she’d finished, ‘but they’ve been using a third party delivery service. They used to come with someone in a car. Often it was Bill himself. Keeping in with old Jonathan, I think.’

‘Yes, Sir Jonathan said he made personal visits. You don’t sound as though you were over-smitten, though.’

‘No.’ Mel shook her head. ‘Always felt there was something funny about the company. I mean, Barry Phillips was good at his job, and they had some good people working there, but, I don’t know, the Supplies division always seemed a bit run down, if you know what I mean. I don’t know if that was the first part of the company Bill set up, and then got into marketing and media and lost interest. That’s a bit what it felt like.’

‘Well, somehow or other Monica’s got to get in and find out. She may want to sell. I think I would, if it was me.’

‘If the business is in good shape,’ said Mel. ‘They’ve been in trouble recently.’

‘Really? My partner said he had a bad time getting money out of them. Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps they don’t want Monica to see the balance sheets.’

Libby was thoughtful as she walked out to the car. Had Ian looked into that? Had they put in a forensic accountant, or whatever they were? Was it fraud? She sighed, unlocked the car door and got in. And stopped. Just ahead of her was a white van with a logo she’d seen before. Diggory’s. And sitting in the passenger seat was a woman she’d seen before. Elizabeth Martin.

The van drove off before she could even think about what to do, or what it meant. All she wanted to do was talk to Fran. And Ian, but preferably Fran. She shut the door, put on the seat belt and started the engine. Would Diggory have recognised her car? No, of course he wouldn’t. And Martin had only seen it in the car park of Frensham Barn, and was unlikely to have taken any notice of it.

She drove carefully home, slightly shaken by what she’d seen and what she’d heard. Sidney welcomed her from the stairs, and, despite the two cups of Earl Grey she’d drunk at Anderson Place, she went straight to the kitchen and switched on the electric kettle. No time now to wait for the cast-iron one, a cup of strong builder’s tea was what was needed.

When she had the mug in her hands, she called Fran.

‘Are you free to talk?’

‘Yes. Chrissie’s upstairs in the spare room.’ Fran sounded gloomy. ‘With Cassandra.’

‘Cassandra? The cat? Why? What’s happened?’

‘She’s walked out on Brucie baby, that’s what happened.’

‘No! Omigod, Fran, that’s terrible. She doesn’t mean to move in with you, surely?’

Fran sighed. ‘I think that’s what she intended when she turned up on the doorstep this morning.’

‘But she couldn’t! There isn’t room, and what about Balzac? He’d hate having Cassandra around. Remember when I had him here with Sidney?’

‘As far as I could tell,’ said Fran, ‘she rather expected me to get rid of both Guy and Balzac.’

Libby exploded into laughter. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘Oh, but I am. I told you she sent Guy off because she needed to, as she put it, “talk to her mother without non-family members butting in”. Then she said “Put that thing out. I need to let Cassandra out of her basket.”’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I said it was Balzac’s home, and as far as I was concerned, Cassandra could stay in her basket until – and this was a master stroke – she went home.’

‘And?’

‘And then she broke down and said she wasn’t going home. I made her tea and calmed her down a bit. That was when you rang. Then I had to listen to her for hours. Finally I told her to go and have a lie down before she drove herself home. She still wouldn’t believe I wasn’t going to let her stay.’

‘I suppose you could, Fran. Just for a day or two.’

Fran sighed again. ‘I know. She is my daughter, after all, but she’s hardly been good to me, has she? And now I’ve heard the whole story, I think they’d be better sitting down and talking it through.’

‘So what’s been the problem, then?’

‘She’s suddenly decided she wants children. Or rather – A Baby.’

‘Ah! And Brucie baby doesn’t.’

‘Well, quite rightly, he’s confused. Cassandra was their baby – and how she’ll take an addition to the family I dread to think – and they’d discussed it before and after they got married.’

‘But you can’t gainsay the old biological clock,’ said Libby.

‘No. And living here isn’t going to make it go away, either. So tell me, what happened at Monica’s?’

So Libby told her.

‘Elizabeth Martin and Richard Diggory? But they come from different sides of the story,’ said Fran.

‘In a way, but they’re both linked to Bill Frensham,’ said Libby.

‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ said Fran. ‘Elizabeth Martin and Diggory. I don’t get it.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Libby, ‘but it can’t have anything to do with my other thought, could it?’

‘About fraud? I doubt it. You think Martin’s trying to keep Monica away because they’ve been cooking the books?’

‘Well, that would bring Diggory in, wouldn’t it?’ giggled Libby.

‘Libby! It’s a possibility and makes more sense than anything else. Have you rung Ian yet?’

‘No. I’ll do that after you. What do you think he’ll say?’

‘Thank you and goodnight, probably,’ said Fran.

But Ian didn’t. When he finally returned Libby’s call, he listened attentively.

‘Well done, Libby,’ he said. Libby pretended to faint for her own amusement. ‘I’ll be round in about an hour. Have the kettle on.’

Chapter Thirty-three

Ian turned up just as Ben and Libby were sitting down to supper.

‘Honestly, Ian,’ said Libby as she ushered him into the sitting room. ‘Your timing’s awful. I haven’t got enough to offer you supper, and I refuse to let it get cold. So you’ll have to sit here on your own until we’re finished.’

‘Can I watch television?’ asked Ian with a grin. ‘I never get the chance.’

Libby handed him the remote. ‘Do you want tea? Coffee?’

‘I’ll have a coffee when you’re ready,’ said Ian, settling back on the sofa, ‘but don’t rush.’

‘He’s got a nerve,’ muttered Ben, as Libby returned to the table.

‘Not really,’ said Libby peaceably. ‘We’re always trying to muscle in on his cases, and if he’s nice enough to let us help the least I can do is let him watch our television.’

‘Our television?’ Ben gave her a crooked smile. ‘That’s a turn-up.’

Libby coloured. ‘Well, of course it is,’ she said. ‘Now, eat up.’

When she took coffee into the sitting room, she had to shake Ian awake.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Haven’t had much sleep recently.’

Ben carried the remainder of the wine in and put it and their glasses on the table in the window. ‘Like a glass?’ he asked, not too grudgingly.

‘No, thanks. I’m driving. But thanks for the coffee, Libby.’

‘That’s OK.’ Libby sat on the other end of the sofa. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Tell me again what happened this afternoon.’

Libby told him again of her afternoon’s meetings with Monica, Sir Jonathan and Melanie, followed by her sighting of Diggory and Elizabeth Martin and her subsequent conversation with Fran.

‘And that’s all?’

‘What else? What were you expecting?’

Ian frowned. ‘I was hoping Monica might understand the Wagnerian reference.’

‘She said he knew his opera. Oh, and they went to see the Ring Cycle together when they were first – well, you know.’

‘I expect they went to a lot of things at that time. Kept them out of the way of people they knew.’

‘For a long time,’ said Libby.

‘Eh?’

‘The Ring Cycle takes between fifteen and twenty hours to perform,’ said Libby, watching Ben’s and Ian’s faces in amusement.

‘What? You have to sit in a theatre for nearly a whole day?’ said Ben in disbelief.

‘No – it’s four operas. Sometimes they’re performed on consecutive days, sometimes independently.’

‘Did Monica think the reference had anything to do with this Ring Cycle?’

‘She didn’t say so. You merely asked me to find out what he meant by “positively Wagnerian”, not which specific piece.’

‘Yes, sorry,’ said Ian.

‘What about Frensham Holdings?’ asked Ben. ‘I wasn’t altogether happy with them as a customer.’

‘You were a customer?’

‘No they were clients of mine,’ said Ben. ‘I designed the conversion of Frensham Barn for them, then they adapted it and didn’t want to pay me.’

‘Ah.’ Ian nodded. ‘We’ve uncovered quite a bit about Frensham Holdings actually, and none of it good.’

‘Really?’ said Libby. ‘You didn’t tell me!’

‘You’re not on the force, Libby. I don’t have to tell you things.’ Ian smiled at her.

‘No.’ Libby looked down, embarrassed. ‘But we’ve been trying to find out about the place – I even went there, didn’t I? I thought you might have told me.’

‘There is definitely something going on at Frensham Supplies,’ said Ian. ‘We’re getting a warrant. We need a forensic audit.’

‘I said that to Fran!’ Libby said in triumph. ‘That’s why they want to keep Monica out of the business, isn’t it?’

Ian frowned. ‘It’s possible, but I’m not sure it’s necessarily false accounting. Well, not in the ordinary way.’

‘So what is it?’ Libby peered at him, eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, I see. You can’t tell me.’ She looked across at Ben and grinned. ‘How about if I make a guess?’

‘I can’t stop you,’ said Ian, putting his mug down.

‘You’re investigating a local drugs ring, aren’t you?’

Ian became very still.

‘You told me that yourself,’ said Libby. ‘That was why you were so busy. Now I know you’re often on more than one serious crime, but it struck me that this could easily have something to do with Frensham Holdings, couldn’t it?’

‘That’s a bit of a leap of faith, Lib,’ said Ben. ‘How on earth did you come up with that?’

‘I can’t remember now,’ said Libby, wrinkling her forehead, ‘but it’s sort of been in the background for ages. Oh – and I’ve just remembered!’

‘What?’ said Ian and Ben together.

‘Harry told me. How could I have forgotten? He said Richard Diggory had started taking orders for Frensham Supplies. He told me days ago. That must be why I saw him and Elizabeth Martin at Anderson Place. Mel said they had courier deliveries now Bill Frensham no longer came to see them himself.’

‘He delivered himself?’ said Ian.

‘Probably only to Anderson Place. He liked to keep in with Sir Jonathan, apparently.’

‘Well, I’m not surprised,’ said Ian grimly. ‘I doubt very much if they needed a fleet of vehicles, or even salesmen.’

‘Oh?’ Libby looked puzzled.

‘The little we have managed to see indicates that there were virtually no supplies. They must have bought in just enough to keep people like Sir Jonathan happy.’

‘You mean they had no customers?’ Ben was frowning.

‘Not Frensham Supplies, no. Or rather, only a few. From before the new divisions started.’

‘Media and Marketing,’ said Libby. ‘Yes, that’s what Mel thought. She said Supplies seemed rundown. So why keep it going?’

‘Come on, Miss Marple,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘Simple isn’t it? As a cover.’

‘Oh!’ Libby looked annoyed. ‘Bugger. Of course. So was he supplying drugs? Bill, I mean?’

‘We’ve got our suspicions,’ said Ian. ‘He went out on deliveries but only made a few, rare genuine ones. So where else did he go?’

‘How do you know he went out?’ said Libby.

‘That came out in our first round of questioning,’ said Ian.

‘So someone knew what was going on – and killed him for it?’

‘In that case, John Lethbridge’s murder is unconnected, which seems unlikely.’

‘Round and round the mulberry bush,’ said Ben, sounding a trifle impatient.

Libby scowled at him and Ian grinned. ‘Absolutely right,’ he said, and stood up. ‘For what it’s worth, I think Lethbridge was blackmailing someone. That’s why he was talking about something being disgusting.’

‘That doesn’t make sense, either,’ said Libby. ‘If he was going round muttering when Wilhelmina got there it sounds as though he’d only just found out about whatever it was, so how could he have already been blackmailing someone?’

‘He’d let someone know, then,’ said Ian. ‘And it was something important enough to be killed for. Meanwhile, I have to find out more about both victims, so anything you can think of, let me know.’

‘But haven’t you already investigated Bill Frensham thoroughly?’

‘Of course. But that was with the possibility of Lethbridge being the murderer.’

‘So you were concentrating on Lethbridge and Monica?’

‘Not solely.’ Ian stood up. ‘As I said, we now need to go a little deeper into both their lives. Find a connection.’

‘Which has to be Monica,’ said Libby. ‘She was married to Bill and had an affair with Ian.’

‘Which was over, as far as we can find out.’

‘Have you looked at the gardeners’ shed?’ said Libby as she held the front door open.

Ian looked confused. ‘Gardeners’ shed?’

‘At Frensham Barn. It was mentioned to me by Barry Phillips. They had a burglary there, but Bill Frensham wouldn’t make anything of it. Didn’t even report it to the police.’

‘What? Why haven’t I been told about this?’ Ian’s dark eyes almost flashed.

‘Why should you have been? If it wasn’t reported to the police, and there was no reason for you to investigate Frensham Barn.’

‘I’ll get on to it,’ said Ian and began to walk to his car. ‘Oh,’ he said, turning back, ‘and thanks, Libby.’

Libby returned to the sitting room and sat down on the sofa. ‘I still don’t get it,’ she said.

Ben came and joined her. ‘You don’t need to. You’ve helped Ian, both of you. Now just let him get on with finding the culprit.’

‘I can’t get over the fact that the police don’t seem to have done enough research into Frensham’s life before this. That’s the most important part of the investigation, isn’t it? Finding out the victim’s secrets, who they met, what they did. All that. Ian didn’t even seem to know about the Goddess Cult and all those unsavoury practices.’ She looked thoughtfully at the empty fireplace. ‘Or perhaps he did and just hasn’t told us. But he didn’t mention it when I told him about my trip to Cornwall.’

‘As he said, Lib, you aren’t on the force and he doesn’t have to tell you everything. Now come on, forget it. Let’s see what’s on the box. Take your mind off it.’

But Libby couldn’t forget it. After Ben had gone to the Manor the following morning, she left a message on Gemma’s mobile. Gemma would be teaching this morning, she knew, but maybe she would ring back at lunchtime. Then she called Barry Phillips, but only succeeded in reaching Trisha.

‘They’ve been here again,’ she whispered. ‘The police. Did you tell them what I said?’

‘Unofficially, yes,’ said Libby, ‘but don’t worry. Your name wasn’t linked to anything.’ She crossed her fingers. ‘It’s just that now another body has been found they have to make even more enquiries.’

‘Oh, no!’ Trisha’s voice wobbled. ‘Is that why they’ve been into Supplies this morning?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘What did they want?’

‘I don’t know. Mrs Martin dealt with it.’

‘Oh, yes. She would.’

‘Yes. Look, I’m sorry to rush you, but I’ve got to get on. Can I take a message for Mr Phillips?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Libby, not wanting to mention the gardeners’ shed to anyone else. ‘I’ll try him again later.’

Fran wasn’t answering either her landline or her mobile, and when Libby called Guy’s shop, she learnt that she had volunteered to go back to Chrissie’s house and try to mediate between the warring factions.

‘With Cassandra commenting all the while, I suppose,’ said Libby.

‘That bloody cat. Kept me awake all night. God knows what it’ll be like if Chrissie does have a baby.’

‘Perhaps they’ll have to give it away. It won’t like the competition.’

‘The baby or the cat?’ growled Guy.

Libby put the phone down and wandered round the sitting room. Something was niggling at the edges of her mind, and she couldn’t pin it down. Something that Ian had said last night, possibly? She leaned against the table in the window and stared out at the lane. Something she herself had said? She sighed and looked at her watch. Nowhere near lunchtime yet, so Gemma wouldn’t be ringing back. What could she do until then? The obvious thing was to do what she had been going to ask Barry Phillips permission for, visit the gardeners’ shed.

But just as she had locked the back door and found the car keys, the phone rang.

‘Libby? It’s Gemma.’ She sounded breathless and flustered. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter, Gem. I didn’t expect you to call me until at least lunchtime.’

‘I thought – well, I thought something had happened,’ said Gemma. ‘Diggory’s been ringing me.’

‘Oh, dear. Renewing his suit?’

‘In a way. Oh, Libby, you were right. He’s quite horrible. He’s been calling you names behind your back, too.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve managed to uncover the nasty little group he and Bill were running under cover of Cranston Morris and more. At least, I think so.’

‘We’ve been hearing about that,’ said Gemma, sounding shaky. ‘Is it to do with those sacrifices?’

‘No, I think they were just to put people off the scent. They were doing sort of Black Mass things. Very nasty.’

‘Oh, my God. Thank you for finding that out Libby. I don’t know how we shall be able to carry on, now.’ She took a breath. ‘And was that why Bill was killed? He said he’d had a letter that morning.’

Libby froze. ‘What?’ she said eventually. ‘What did you say?’

‘What did I say? Which bit?’

‘About a letter.’

‘Oh, that. When we arrived for the start of the May Day parade Bill was cross. He was talking to Diggory and didn’t seem his usual self. Dan asked him what was the matter and he said it didn’t matter, he’d had a letter that morning, and he’d deal with it later.’

‘Didn’t you tell the police?’ Libby almost shrieked. ‘For God’s sake, Gemma, don’t you see how important that was?’

Gemma sounded even shakier now. ‘No, why? What could a letter matter?’

‘Because it was probably the reason he was killed, you idiot! Because the police could have been looking for that letter from the moment he was found.’

‘Oh, God.’ Now she sounded close to tears. ‘I just didn’t think. I’d forgotten all about it until now.’

‘Never mind,’ said Libby, ‘I’ll tell the police. Did they ask you about Lethbridge?’

‘Yes. All I could tell them was John must have been late. There was a gap in the formation before we started, but when I looked back everyone was there.’

‘Only it wasn’t John, was it, because he was already dead.’

This time Gemma really did break down and Libby had to spend a good deal of time calming her down.

‘Look, shouldn’t you be in class now?’ she asked eventually.

‘No. Free period. That’s why I rang you.’

‘Well, don’t you think you should ask to go home? I mean you’re obviously not well. I’m sure they’d understand, under the circumstances.’

‘I can’t let the children down,’ wailed Gemma.

‘Oh, right.’ Libby frowned. ‘Well, ring Dan at lunchtime and see what he says. Tell him all about it.’

Next Libby called Ian’s mobile number.

‘Yes?’ He sounded exasperated. Libby adopted a cowed and anxious tone and explained about Gemma and the letter. Ian exploded.

‘Fucking hell! Bloody woman! Why didn’t she tell us in the first place. My Christ, we could have had an arrest within a couple of hours. Good God, I’ll give her hell.’

‘Yes, Ian,’ said Libby meekly.

‘Sorry. God, Libby, I’m sorry. Thank you for that. Where is she?’

‘At her school. In a state. I don’t think she’ll want you turning up there.’

‘I don’t care if she doesn’t like it. God, this is unbelievable.’

Libby listened while Ian continued to rant until he finally ran out of swear-words and rang off, promising to update her later that day. Then she picked up her basket and her keys and left the house.

As she drove towards Frensham Barn through a brilliantly sunny late morning, she wondered exactly what she was trying to achieve. Last night she’d told Ian about the gardeners’ shed. Surely that was enough? But she’d had the feeling then that it wasn’t at the top of his list of priorities, and after their recent conversation it would have fallen even further. She wasn’t sure of the significance of the shed, either. She could be barking up entirely the wrong tree, but she had to know.

Arriving on the forecourt of the barn, it was obvious that there was no one there. Taking out her mobile, she rang Trisha again.

‘He’s not back yet,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to leave a message?’

‘Well – OK, then. When I met him before, he mentioned the burglary at the gardeners’ shed at Frensham Barn. It’s something,’ she crossed her fingers, ‘the police want to look into, so I thought I ought to come on a recce. I was hoping he’d meet me there, but obviously not.’

‘No,’ said Trisha. ‘Could anyone else help?’

‘Oh, no, don’t trouble anyone,’ said Libby hastily. ‘I’ll wait until I hear from Barry.’

Frustrated, she put the phone away. It was sweltering in the car, so she opened the door and climbed out. The air had that hot, silent shimmery feel that so rarely happens in England and she stretched, feeling her damp shirt pulling away from her back. Around the barn, the woods stood unmoving. Libby decided it would be cooler in there, and, anyway, she might as well reconnoitre as she was here, as she’d told Trisha. Taking her mobile out of her basket and sliding it into her jeans pocket with her keys, she set off for the woods.

As she reached the edge, she had the presence of mind to send a text message to both Ian and Ben, realising that her signal would probably disappear, and if she found anything she might need someone to know where she was. That, she thought, as she went into the woods, was where the heroines of fiction went wrong. They never let anyone know where they were.

She plunged onwards.

Chapter Thirty-four

The woods weren’t as thick as she first thought. After five minutes she came out to a patch of lawn surrounded by ornamental shrubs and roses. A path appeared to run from the other side behind a hedge of what looked like yew, so she set off across the grass towards it. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the faint sounds of a lawnmower, and it occurred to her to wonder what she would do, or say, if confronted by one of Frensham Barn’s shadowy gardeners. So far, she’d given the existence of these creatures no thought at all. Barry Phillips had said they existed, so they did, but if so, how could Bill Frensham possibly have used the shed as a facility for anything?

As the reality of this thought hit her, her steps slowed. She’d been stupid. Just because Frensham hadn’t contacted the police after the burglary, it didn’t mean there was anything suspicious about the place. After all, Phillips had told her that he’d told their estates department. It could all be proved, and was presumably above board, so there wouldn’t be anything to find and Ian would be furious with her if she’d sent him on a wild goose chase.

But, suddenly, there it was, in front of her. A white-painted, brick-built building with two doors, one at each end. The one long window between the doors appeared to be covered from the inside, but that was nothing so unusual. Libby went slowly forward.

The ground around the building was trampled, particularly round the door nearest to Libby. When she approached, she realised that the padlock was hanging loose, and when she tried the door, very gingerly, it swung obediently open. Her heart gave a huge thump and she stepped back hurriedly.

But all that met her eyes was a range of clean, but obviously used, tools hung neatly on the walls, hoses, flowerpots and strimmers ranged on the floor, and a large space in the middle, presumably where the lawnmower she’d heard earlier normally sat. Disappointed but relieved at the same time, she stepped back and pushed the door closed. And then realised that the gardeners’ store only took up about a third of the building.

The other door was padlocked. Libby stood on tiptoe and tried to see in the window, but it was too well covered. Frustrated, she walked round to the back of the building. Here there was another covered window, but nothing else. She stood looking at it, listening to the sound of the lawnmower, which sounded nearer now. Which meant it was time to get out of the way fairly quickly. In fact, she thought, as she heard voices approaching, even quicker.

But she was trapped. The voices were coming from the other side of the building, so they were approaching from the same way as Libby herself had. How embarrassing. She stood against the wall of the building and tried to think.

‘She’s got to be here somewhere,’ said the first voice, and Libby nearly fainted with fright. ‘Are you sure that was her car?’

‘Yes, certain. You don’t see many of them around these days. There couldn’t be two like it.’ Diggory’s voice was harsh. ‘Nosy fucking cow. I knew she was trouble.’

‘She doesn’t know anything. She can’t know anything.’

‘But she’s sicked the bloody cops onto us. You heard that Trisha girl telling Phillips.’

‘Then they won’t find anything. Come on, get that door open.’

Libby heard the sounds of a door being opened.

‘They’ve already been turning over your bleeding offices. They know all right.’ Diggory’s voice faded as he went inside the building.

‘Knowing and proving are two different things. I can manage to unload it all on Bill Frensham. Thank God he’s dead.’ And Elizabeth Martin’s voice faded inside after Diggory’s.

Libby’s heart was beating so hard she thought she might faint. Could she get back round the building and back to her car without being seen? She would have to try, she thought, and began to make her way as silently as possible back to the front of the building on the far side to where she guessed Martin and Diggory had gone in. Very slowly, resisting the temptation to run straight across the lawn, she edged round, clinging to the shrubs. They knew she was here somewhere, although not exactly where, but at any minute they might come looking for her. At the moment, though, they were too busy clearing whatever was incriminating in the gardeners’ shed.

As she came out into the car park she punched in Ian’s number again.

‘Now what?’ he said. Libby told him.

‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘Five minutes.’

‘They’ll run if they hear a car,’ said Libby, ‘and I’m right beside their car now – or rather Diggory’s van. And they know I’m here. They’ve seen my car.’

‘Hide, then, for fuck’s sake,’ said Ian. ‘Just stay there.’

Sweating and shaking, Libby looked round for somewhere to hide. There wasn’t anywhere, unless she went round to the back of the barn, which meant traversing the wide open space of the car park. She began to pray that the gardeners would turn up. Perhaps they would save her. But then it struck her, as she slid to the ground beside Romeo and rested her head on her knees, the gardeners must know all about the contents of the other side of the shed. Unless they did, Frensham, Martin and Diggory, and presumably at one time, Lethbridge and Wilhelmina too, would never have been able to use the place. So who were the gardeners?

She was about to find out.

A shadow fell across her. She squinted up against the sun, and saw a large figure dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.

‘Are you all right?’ it said.

Libby cleared a dry throat and began to struggle to her feet. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she managed.

‘I know you,’ said the person when she finally stood upright. ‘You’re that woman.’

Libby looked at him. His round face was open, the narrow eyes friendly. Very little taller than she was herself, he held a pair of shears in one hand and a pair of gardening gloves in the other.

‘That woman,’ he continued. ‘You know Mrs Gemma.’

‘Yes,’ said Libby, relief flooding through her. ‘Have we met?’

Gemma taught in the special needs department of a local school, where she herself had visited.

‘You came and showed us painting,’ said the young man. ‘Long time ago.’

‘That’s right,’ said Libby, overcome with affection for this unlikely ally. She tucked her arm in his. ‘And you work here now?’

He nodded vigorously. ‘Not as good as painting,’ he said.

‘But very good. Have you been cutting the grass?’

He nodded again. ‘Over there.’ He pointed away from the woods.

‘Do you work on your own?’

‘Sometimes Mr Best comes to help.’ He smiled at her. ‘Mr Best’s very good.’

Libby heard an engine and turned towards the drive as the first of two police cars drove up. The young man stiffened beside her.

‘It’s all right,’ she said to him, patting his arm. ‘They’re friends of mine. They’ve come to catch some bad people.’ She paused. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Samuel,’ he said. ‘I live with Mr Best.’

Ian was approaching them.

‘This is Samuel, Ian. Samuel, this is my friend Ian. He’s going to catch some bad people.’ She turned to Ian. ‘Through those woods and out the other side, over the lawn and behind the hedge. But you’ll be seen.’

‘No we won’t.’ Ian grinned at her. ‘Well done, Libby, even if you were a bit stupid to come out here on your own.’

‘I didn’t know this was going to happen,’ said Libby indignantly, and watched as Ian and his team disappeared silently into the woods.

‘I’m going to tell Mr Best,’ said Samuel suddenly. ‘It’s his garden.’

‘All right, Samuel,’ said Libby. ‘Where is he? Can I give you a lift?’

Samuel shook his head, looking worried. ‘I must walk. Down there.’ He pointed.

‘All right, then.’ Libby smiled at him. ‘I hope I see you again.’

He nodded, gave her a brief hug and set off across the drive and vanished into a shrubbery. Libby leant against Romeo staring after him. Gemma taught many young people like Samuel, and strangely, his straightforward and obvious desire to be friends with her had wiped away the fear she had felt earlier. If there were nice, kind people like Samuel in the world, it couldn’t all be bad, could it?

And then, for no particular reason that she could see, she thought of Monica and her children. Had there been a trace of something in the faces of those children in the photograph? Something – her mind made the connection – a little like Samuel? She frowned down at the ground, thinking furiously. But if both children were a little bit like Samuel, what did it matter?

She supposed she ought to wait for Ian to come back with his prize, but she had no intention of facing either Elizabeth Martin or Richard Diggory, and if Ian found out enough to charge them with Frensham’s murder, all well and good, although she didn’t think he would. She wondered if he had talked to Monica about the letter yet, and suddenly decided to go and find out. She had to know who sent that letter. That would be the killer.

She got into the car and turned on the engine. Of course, maybe it was Martin who’d sent it. Not Diggory – Frensham had been talking to him on May Day morning, and there was still the mystery of the fake Lethbridge. She set off down the drive and turned towards Steeple Cross.

Elizabeth Martin. Still carrying a torch for Bill Frensham, and now apparently involved in whatever Frensham and Diggory had going on under the cover of Frensham Supplies. Drugs, presumably, although didn’t Harry say Diggory had hinted at porn?

Who else could have sent the letter? Anyone, she supposed. Barry Phillips, Wilhelmina, even Monica. Or someone neither she nor the police were aware of. It could be anyone in the whole world. She screwed up her face. Address book – that would be a good starting point. Unless Ian had already stolen a march on her.

And what was it about? Hadn’t she thought about blackmail already? But that was thinking that Lethbridge was blackmailing Frensham – wasn’t it? By this time her head was throbbing and once more her shirt was sticking to her back. Her mobile trilled. Guessing it was Ian, she virtuously refused to answer it as she was driving.

She began to go through the ramifications of relationships. First of all, Monica and Bill Frensham. Then Monica and John Lethbridge. At some point in the past, it could have been Diggory and Monica. Then there was Bill Frensham, who had an affair with Elizabeth Martin, who still loved him, apparently, and Wilhelmina, who had also had an affair with Diggory. Bloody hell, thought Libby. Finally, there was poor old Barry Phillips, who sat on the sidelines and wasn’t involved with anything, except that he was in love with Elizabeth Martin, which did give him a sort of motive.

She turned off the A2 and began to drive across country towards Steeple Cross. Had she missed anyone out? Of course, there was the Mannan Night crowd, and the Goat’s Head Morris, all of whom could have the means to blackmail anyone involved with their unsavoury goings-on, but Bill Frensham’s death had occurred two months before this year’s Mannan Night, and, if there had been a reason to blackmail him, surely it would have been just after last year’s festivities.

Her phone went again, and once again, she ignored it. She was now plunging deep into the narrow lanes that led between some of the few hop gardens that remained in this part of Kent. Praying that she wouldn’t meet another vehicle coming the other way, she slowed right down and wondered what she was going to say to Monica Frensham. “The police have just caught your rival in love ?” No, because she wasn’t really a rival, was she? Perhaps “Did you know your husband received a letter the morning he was killed and do you know what was in it?” She sighed. Too bald, and anyway, Ian had probably already asked the same question.

Thankfully, she turned into the road leading down to Steeple Cross and the Frensham House. She was going to have to play it by ear.

Chapter Thirty-five

‘Don’t worry, I already know,’ were Monica’s first words as she opened the door. Libby gaped.

‘About Elizabeth Martin and Richard Diggory,’ she continued. ‘Your Inspector called me. He’d an appointment to see me, but he had to cancel, and as the barn is technically my property now, he told me why.’ She shook her head and stood back for Libby to enter. ‘I knew there was some reason that woman didn’t want me looking into the business.’

‘It certainly seems that way,’ said Libby, following into the sitting room.

‘It was kind of you to come and tell me, though,’ said Monica. Libby was grateful she didn’t ask any questions. ‘You look very hot, though. Can I get you a cold drink? Or tea?’

‘Could I have a glass of water?’ asked Libby. ‘And perhaps tea after that? I’ve had a bit of a morning.’

Monica smiled. ‘Of course. Why don’t you come through to the kitchen?’

The kitchen was much as Libby would have expected, very sleek, very modern, very clean. Monica took a filter jug from the huge American-style fridge and poured a glass of water. Libby perched on a stool by a breakfast bar to drink it.

‘Did Inspector Connell tell you what he found in the shed?’

‘Oh, was it a shed? He just said they’d arrested the two of them in possession of something at Frensham Barn.’

‘Yes, it was the gardeners’ shed in the grounds. But didn’t he say what he found?’

Monica shrugged, but Libby thought she saw something flicker in her eyes. ‘No.’

‘Did he actually say “in possession of something”?’

Monica looked confused. ‘Perhaps he didn’t,’ she said. ‘I thought he did.’ She turned away as the kettle boiled. If he didn’t, thought Libby, that means you knew they’d find something there. Interesting. ‘Actually,’ she said out loud, ‘I wanted to ask you a question. The same question that Inspector Connell was going to ask you.’

‘Oh?’ Monica turned round. ‘What was that?’

‘Well, you know the police have to investigate the backgrounds of both your husband and John Lethbridge more thoroughly now?’

‘Really?’ Monica took milk from the fridge. ‘Milk?’

‘Yes, please. No sugar,’ said Libby, noticing that this time there were no dainty cups, simply floral mugs. ‘Anyway, since John Lethbridge’s body was found –’ she saw Monica wince ‘– they have to look further afield for your husband’s murderer.’

‘I didn’t think they thought John was the murderer in the first place,’ said Monica, handing over a mug.

‘I’m not sure they did, either, but it was one of their theories. When he was found, then it was no longer a single, but a multiple murderer. And something must have linked the two men.’

‘That’s simple. Me.’

‘Yes, I know, but in that case who would want to kill them? Someone who was jealous of them both? Did you have another – um – admirer?’

‘Another lover, you mean?’ Monica looked amused. ‘Not recently, no. And as far as I know, no one wanted to be.’

‘Right.’ Libby looked down into her mug.

‘So was that the question?’

‘No.’ Libby looked up. ‘The day he died, your husband received a letter. Do you know who it was from?’

Monica’s eyes widened. ‘A letter?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know he did?’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Libby. ‘Did he?’

Monica shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know. Where did he get it?’

‘Here, I thought.’

Monica shook her head again. ‘Not that I saw. We had breakfast together, then he went off. Perhaps he was given it when he met the other Morris Men?’

‘Maybe.’ Libby wasn’t sure this was going the way she wanted it. ‘We thought maybe it was blackmail.’

‘In that case,’ said Monica, almost scornfully, ‘John wouldn’t be linked with it, would he? He was already dead.’

I don’t know where to go with this, thought Libby. I should have left it to the police.

‘So where is this letter?’ Monica picked up her own mug and gestured for Libby to go through to the sitting room.

‘No one knows,’ said Libby, now worrying that she would give away vital information and Ian would kill her.

‘It doesn’t seem as though there’s any hard evidence of it existing at all.’ Monica went to her leather chair. ‘Why do you think it did?’

‘The police were told about it.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake! Who by?’

‘Your husband was overheard talking to someone on the morning of his death.’

‘And he said he’d had a letter? Sounds unlikely to me. If it was a blackmailing letter, surely he wouldn’t have talked about it?’

‘That’s true.’ Libby frowned. ‘You’re absolutely right.’ She looked up and smiled at Monica. ‘I wonder if Inspector Connell has thought of it? It does seem unlikely, doesn’t it?’

Monica smiled back. ‘Logic, that’s all. Who would he have told about a blackmail letter? It’s not something you would tell anyone, is it?’

‘Oh, but he did.’

Libby and Monica both swung round.

‘And you know who he told, don’t you?’ Wilhelmina’s tone was vicious. She stood in the conservatory doorway, dishevelled yet menacing. The black leather and lace were back, and the mask-like make-up, but everything was slightly off kilter. Libby could see her chest rising and falling quickly.

‘Go on, then, guess.’ Wilhelmina strode across the eau-de-nile carpet to where Monica shrank back in her chair, and slapped her hard across the face. Tea went everywhere.

‘You, then. You’re so clever.’ She turned to Libby. ‘You didn’t get any of it, did you?’

‘Of what?’ said Libby, through dry lips.

‘You didn’t get what John was on about, did you? What he’d found out?’

‘No.’

‘And now your fucking Inspector has arrested Diggory.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything? And how do you know?’ Libby could barely speak, but nothing Wilhelmina was saying was making any sense.

‘They caught that cow Martin. He was – I don’t know – out of sight, and he sent me a text. Knew they’d find him. Said it was your fault. And hers. They’ll come for me next.’

‘Are you saying Diggory killed Bill?’ Monica’s voice was bordering on hysteria.

‘Diggory?’ Wilhelmina laughed. ‘He wouldn’t have the guts.’ She stumbled over Monica’s feet and picked up the photographs from the mantelpiece. ‘This is what it’s really about!’ She waved them at Libby, her voice cracking. ‘That’s why he wrote the letter.’

‘Eh? Who?’ Libby looked across at Monica in bewilderment. Monica just sat curled in her chair, a frozen bundle of fear.

‘Who do you bloody think?’ snarled Wilhelmina, and threw the pictures at Libby. One of them caught the side of her head and smashed, showering glass over her face. Monica screamed.

‘You stupid cow!’ Wilhelmina screamed back. ‘John, of course! John wrote the letter.’

Libby shakily moved a hand to wipe the blood trickling down the side of her face. John? Lethbridge? He wrote the letter? She looked down at the photograph on the floor, four faces smiling out of a frame. So alike.

She never knew why the synapses connected quite as they did, but suddenly it all made sense. At least, some of it did.

‘Had Bill told him, Willy?’ she asked as gently as she could.

‘Course he bloody didn’t.’ She was shaking now, too, and had to hold on to the mantel shelf. Monica was moaning quietly in her chair.

‘So what happened?’

Wilhelmina’s legs suddenly gave way and she crumpled to the floor. ‘John said –’ she looked over at Monica ‘– that she should stop chasing him.’

‘Monica was chasing John?’

Wilhelmina nodded. ‘They’d had a thing going but it was over. John wanted me back.’

‘Did he?’ Libby was surprised and didn’t altogether believe this. ‘So what happened?’

‘John went to see – her. She told him. Told him everything. He told me.’

‘Monica told John the truth? So why did John write Bill a letter?’

‘Oh, don’t be a fucking idiot,’ said Wilhelmina wearily.

‘It was blackmail, then?’

‘Bill didn’t know. John wrote and told him.’

Libby’s eyebrows rose to her hairline and she looked across at Monica who was still whimpering.

‘Monica knew? And she hadn’t said anything?’

Wilhelmina shrugged.

‘But it wasn’t Bill who killed John?’

‘He was dead by then, wasn’t he?’ Wilhelmina stuck her legs out in front of her and leaned her head back against the wall. ‘I loved him, you know.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Libby quietly. ‘So do you know the truth, too? Why didn’t you tell the police before?’

Wilhelmina shrugged again.

‘Right.’ Libby looked thoughtfully at Monica. ‘And the police will be coming here. Monica!’

Monica looked up, her eyes unfocussed.

‘You almost told me, didn’t you?’

‘Told you what?’ Her voice was slurred.

‘You told me about the Gods and Goddesses. And then you realised what John meant when he was talking about something being Wagnerian.’

Monica sat up a little. ‘Did I?’

‘Oh, yes. And I nearly got there by mentioning Brunnhilde, didn’t I?’

Monica said nothing. Wilhelmina was looking puzzled. Libby eased herself towards the edge of her seat and brushed a little more glass from her shirt. She felt quite calm now.

‘It’s an opera,’ she told Wilhelmina. ‘And Brunnhilde falls in love with her nephew Siegfried, not knowing he’s her nephew. And Siegfried himself is the son of Siegmund and Sieglinde, neither of whom knows that they are brother and sister.’ She looked at Monica, who was sitting with her mouth open. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Monica? Brother and sister. Just like you and Bill.’

Chapter Thirty-six

‘So who killed John and Bill?’ said Libby.

‘She did, of course,’ came a quiet voice from behind Libby.

Ian Connell walked over to Monica and crouched down beside her. ‘It was you, Monica, wasn’t it? Did you join in on Beltane Night?’

Libby and Wilhelmina, their mouths open, sat motionless. Monica focussed on Ian and nodded slightly. A female police officer came quietly up on her other side and Libby was aware of further bodies behind her.

‘What did you do?’ Ian’s voice was still quiet, comforting almost.

‘John said he would tell Bill.’ Her voice was rusty. ‘I got out our son’s old Cranston Morris costume and went and hid in the woods. Then I just joined in. And when we got to the edge of – when we got to the edge,’ Ian nodded, ‘I whispered to him, and he was so surprised. And I made him go down the hill a bit and then I hit him.’

‘What with?’ asked Ian.

‘A hammer. Bill’s hammer. He fell down to the bottom and I went on so I could join in the dances. No one noticed.’

‘What about the clothes? And your black face?’

‘I hid the clothes and got my make-up off before Bill got home. Then in the morning he found the letter. It must have been there the night before, although I missed it, because it was by hand. No post on Bank Holidays.’

‘And you killed Bill?’

‘I put the clothes on again. Danced with them. I used to watch them, you see, even if they didn’t know I did. Then I stabbed him with his own paperknife. It was an old awl.’ She was looking wistfully into the past.

‘Why did you kill him?’

‘Because he was going to end the marriage, of course.’ She sat up straight, her face clearing a little. ‘I couldn’t have that. I’ve kept the secret ever since I found out.’

‘When was that?’ asked Ian.

‘Before we were married. No one would ever find out. But then I told John.’

‘Why did you tell John?’

‘Because he wouldn’t come back to me, he said I was married to Bill, so I told him that I couldn’t be, not really. And he was – angry.’

‘And he said he’d tell Bill?’

‘So I killed him before he could. But he’d put the letter in the letter box. I couldn’t have Bill ruining our lives.’ She shook her head. ‘So silly.’

Ian stood up and repeated the usual warning to Monica Frensham, who hardly seemed to take it in, and the police officer helped her to her feet. Libby stood up, though her legs threatened to give way, and stepped forward.

‘If there’s anything you need, Monica,’ she said. Monica stared at her.

‘Come on, Libby,’ Ian put an arm round her shoulders. ‘We’re going to get you home.’

‘What about –’ Libby gestured to Wilhelmina sitting on the floor.

‘Unless you want to press charges of assault? I take it she threw the picture?’

Libby nodded. ‘If she hadn’t I might not have realised.’ She shuddered. ‘Brother and sister. How awful. How do you suppose she found out?

‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, although she seems willing enough to talk at the moment.’

‘She’s not right, is she?’ Libby went to get into the Renault, but Ian stopped her.

‘Leave it here, Lib. You’re in no state to drive, and your Ben will be fit to be tied when he hears what’s been happening. We’ll get you home.’

‘I want to know what’s happened, though, Ian. At the barn and everything. I did lead you there.’

‘I know, I know. Once the paperwork is done, I promise I’ll come and fill you in.’

‘Tonight? Can the others be there?’

‘Strictly off the record, but yes, OK.’ He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and saw her into a police car. ‘Go on. I’ll ring you and tell you when I can there.’

It was past ten o’clock when Ian arrived at Number 17 Allhallow’s Lane. Fran and Guy had driven over, bringing bottles of sparkling wine, Ben, after reading the riot act, had persuaded Harry to send Adam round with a take-away, and Peter had arrived with a bottle of whisky. Harry and Adam promised to come round as soon as the Pink Geranium’s customers had all gone home.

Ben gave Ian a large whisky and a plate of Harry’s best vegetarian pate and bread.

‘I hope it isn’t Diggory’s,’ said Libby, eyeing it thoughtfully.

‘I don’t care if it is,’ said Ian. ‘I haven’t eaten since this morning.’

Fran patted him on the arm. ‘It was very good of you to come,’ she said. ‘You really should have gone home to bed.’

Libby sent her a fulminating glare, but Ian laughed.

‘I owe it to Libby,’ he said. ‘She was the catalyst.’ Libby looked smug.

‘What happened, then?’ asked Peter. ‘Libby’s told us more or less everything, but we don’t know any of the whys and wherefores.’

‘As long as you don’t have your journalist’s notebook out,’ said Ian, and Peter looked down his patrician nose. ‘OK,’ he said, and took a swallow of whisky. ‘When Libby called us to say she was at the barn and Elizabeth Martin and Richard Diggory were there, we’d already found a couple of clues in the offices of Frensham Supplies. It appears they were a distribution centre only, so we still haven’t got anywhere near the major players, but Frensham and Diggory had a nice little business going. And you were right, they did a lot of business down in Cornwall. Malahyde is a distributor, too.’

‘What about Bernie Lee?’ asked Libby.

‘His name hasn’t come up,’ said Ian, ‘but it looks as though the – er – undercover arm of the morris dancers were a cover for drugs. Diggory will be done for supplying, as will Martin. They were keeping the business going after Frensham’s death, though both of them suspected each other of murdering him.’

‘What about Barry Phillips? Why did Martin say she wanted to kill him?’ asked Libby.

‘Best guess? He was as straight as a dye, and when he suspected something was going on and tried to interfere she wasn’t having any. I feel sorry for the bugger. He’s going to be left with the whole mess.’

They all looked solemn for a moment.

‘Then of course, Monica. She told you most of it this afternoon. She’ll be unfit to plead, I suspect.’

‘Those poor kids,’ said Fran. ‘What on earth will happen to them?’

‘They’re both over eighteen,’ said Ian, ‘so they won’t go into care.’

Fran shuddered. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘When you went to see her after Frensham’s body had been discovered,’ said Libby, ‘there must have been traces of blacking in the house. Didn’t you search the house? And what about the hammer?’

‘She was clever. We saw traces of the blacking in the cloakroom sink, and she said it was from her husband last night. She hadn’t time to clear it up yet. And the clothes she simply said were his other outfit. She hadn’t had time to do anything with them. The hammer she just replaced in the garage. No one suspected her of course, so no tests were made.’ He made a face. ‘It would have saved us a lot of trouble if they had been.’

‘What about Lethbridge’s car?’ asked Fran.

‘In the woods near the Tyne Chapel. She must have driven it there after she killed him. She told us that, too.’

‘And no one really questioned her much after Frensham’s murder?’ said Ben.

‘She really did collapse,’ said Ian. ‘Obviously because of what she’d done, but at the time she appeared prostrated with grief. All the doctors agreed she’d had a sort of breakdown. Which she had, and when she heard about Libby and Fran investigating, it began to send her over the edge again.’

‘But she didn’t look as though she intended to murder me,’ said Libby.

‘No. I don’t think she would. Wilhelmina, on the other hand –’ Ian grinned at her.

‘Yes,’ said Libby, putting a hand up to the bump on her head.

‘What will happen to Wilhelmina?’ asked Fran.

‘She definitely knew about the drugs, and took part in the parties, but other than that she’s guilty of nothing but bad judgement.’ He grinned. ‘And throwing a picture at Libby.’

‘How did you know where I was though?’ said Libby. ‘You turned up like the god from the machine in the nick of time.’

‘Diggory started talking. Not about Monica being the murderer, but saying she knew all about the drugs. We decided we’d better round her up as well. When we arrived and saw your car, and what we now know is Wilhelmina’s – almost as bad as yours, Libby – we changed tactics and crept in. In time for me to hear quite a bit of your rather one-sided conversation.’

‘And did she know about the drugs?’ asked Fran.

‘We think so. There wasn’t actually much she didn’t know about the business, she just pretended not to. We think she could keep tabs on her husband that way.’

‘But she asked me to help.’ Libby frowned. ‘Wouldn’t she have been better keeping quiet?’

‘As far as we can tell, she wanted to point the investigation in a different direction, and she couldn’t do that with us – the police – so she picked on you. Like a good many people in the area, she’d heard about your adventures.’

‘Interference,’ corrected Ben.

‘Humph.’ Libby scowled at him and turned her attention back to Ian. ‘But why did she go ahead and marry Bill if she knew that they were brother and sister?’

‘She’s an obsessive personality, isn’t she? I expect by that time she’d set her heart on him and wasn’t going to give him up. They were both adopted and she didn’t think anyone would find out. That’s what she said to us.’

‘I still don’t understand why she had to snoop round Frensham Holdings if she already knew about the drugs,’ said Fran.

‘She wanted proof. Then she could have held it over Martin and Diggory and either cut herself in or exposed them.’ Ian shrugged. ‘She wasn’t making much sense when we got to that point.’

‘Well,’ said Ben getting up to fetch another bottle of fizz. ‘I suppose all’s well that ends well, and I’m glad I wasn’t wrong about Bill Frensham and his company.’

‘Are we still going to have a retirement party?’ asked Libby. ‘I think I need something like that.’

There was a sharp rap on the front door and a scuffle in the hallway.

‘Hello?’ Harry put his head round the door. ‘Have we missed Poirot’s explanation? And did I hear something about a party?’