Chapter Twelve

‘WHAT WAS SO ANNOYING,’ said Fran, sipping at a glass of water, ‘was that it didn’t mean anything. We already knew someone had been left dead on the island – it was hardly news.’

‘It was a bit frightening,’ said Jane, who still looked pale. ‘I’ve never seen anyone keel over like that.’

‘It could mean something,’ said Libby, looking thoughtful. ‘And at least it’s settled one thing.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Fran.

‘You’re still functioning.’

‘Oh.’ Fran looked uncomfortably towards Jane.

Libby gave her a disarming smile. ‘Fran wasn’t going to have anything to do with any more so-called psychic investigations, you see,’ she said. ‘Pity she can’t switch off.’

‘Exactly,’ said Fran with relief. ‘But perhaps it wasn’t that. Perhaps it was just a sort of strange seasickness.’

‘Do you feel sick?’ asked Jane, moving backwards.

‘Not in the least,’ said Fran cheerfully.

‘Well, if you’re OK now, I’d better go and hand round some more bread.’

‘Yes, I’m fine, Jane. Thank you for the water,’ said Fran, looking round briefly at the curious faces of the other passengers and giving them a small smile.

‘You nearly dropped me in it,’ she said, turning back to Libby. ‘She’s not to know I’m doing anything.’

‘All right, all right, I covered it up, didn’t I?’ Libby wiped her olivey hands on a tissue.

‘I suppose so,’ said Fran. ‘And you said it could still mean something. What?’

‘As far as I remember, from what you’ve told me, you only get those feelings at the actual site something’s happened.’

‘Mostly, but not always.’

‘Yes, but you also felt it in Aunt Eleanor’s room, didn’t you? And at The Alexandria.’

‘Yes.’ Fran looked doubtful. ‘So what you’re saying is that the murder could have taken place on the island? But that’s impossible.’

‘Three impossible things before breakfast,’ grinned Libby. ‘Anyway, bet you that’s what it means.’

‘Hmm.’ Fran frowned down at her glass.

‘So now you’ve got to decide whether you tell Ian or not.’

‘Or Kent and Coast.’

‘No, they’re only supposed to be giving you cover for investigations. Not to be told the results.’

‘That’s true,’ said Fran, looking much struck by this. ‘But do I tell Ian or not?’

‘Is he going to take any notice? They thought the body had been dumped there, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, and that was forensic evidence, so I don’t see how it could be wrong.’

Libby thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t either,’ she said finally. ‘But I still think you ought to tell Ian. Then you can decide whether you want to stop altogether after that.’

‘I’ll do that.’ Fran looked over at the island, which now reared up looking quite forbidding as they passed across the back where the body had been found. ‘Just there, I think,’ she said, pointing.

‘Yes,’ said Jane from behind. ‘That’s exactly where it was.’

‘Right.’ Fran took a shaky breath. ‘Not that I really wanted to know.’

‘Can you really not switch off?’ asked Jane curiously.

Fran looked across at Libby and made a face.

‘I think things just pop into her head whether she wants them to or not,’ said Libby, coming to the rescue. ‘Annoying, I should think.’

‘Mmm.’ Jane studied the back of Fran’s head.

‘It’s a lovely trip.’ Libby smiled brightly. ‘I love being out on boats.’

‘This one’s not very interesting really, just an opportunity to see the back of the island.’ Jane sat down on Libby’s bench. ‘The other one which goes out of the bay is better.’

‘Where exactly does it go?’ asked Libby.

‘Round the point and along a little way to where there’s a cove. You can’t get to it from the landward side, so it’s always deserted. They stop there and people picnic on the sand.’

‘A real smugglers’ cove?’ said Libby.

Jane looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know how any smuggled stuff would get off the beach again, though,’ she said.

‘Oh, there’s bound to be a secret passage through the cliffs!” Libby’s eyes shone. ‘Shall we go on one of those boat trips, Fran?’

Fran at last turned back to them and laughed. ‘Is this Rupert Bear or the Famous Five, Lib?’

‘Bit of both. I used to love those illustrations of cliffs and boulders in the Rupert stories, and I always believed you could actually have the sort of adventures the Famous Five had if only you lived in the right place.’

‘Did you go exploring when you were here on holiday?’ asked Fran.

‘I tried,’ Libby laughed. ‘Round the other headland, but all that was there was another beach with a lot of people on it. You couldn’t get any further, so I used to fantasise that there were all sorts of caves and tunnels just out of sight that ran up to the top of the cliffs.’

‘But the top of the cliffs are built over,’ said Jane.

‘Not then, they weren’t,’ said Libby. ‘There were fields all the way along the coast.’

‘We used to walk along The Tops,’ said Fran. ‘That’s what they were called, weren’t they?’

‘That’s the name of an estate up there now,’ said Jane. ‘If you go right to the end of my road you come to the back of it.’

‘Doesn’t the town look different from out here?’ said Libby, leaning over the rail. ‘Much more picturesque. I can see your cottage.’

‘I should think so, seeing as it’s on the harbour wall.’ Fran leaned over too. ‘And there’s your house, Jane. It’s closer than I thought to The Alexandria.’

‘And that’s where The Tops were.’ Libby pointed. ‘Close to The Alexandria, too.’

‘Who’s working on The Alexandria, Lib?’ Fran turned suddenly to her friend.

‘Eh?’

‘The builders. Who are they?’

‘How should I know?’

‘I thought Ben was involved?’

Libby frowned. ‘I believe he was consulted.’

Jane looked from one to another. ‘Is that the Ben I met the other night? He’s involved with The Alexandria? What’s happening to it?’

‘I told you last week, I have no idea,’ said Libby. ‘If Ben was consulted, it was in his capacity as an architect. I wouldn’t know about any of that.’

Fran, looking chastened, had sat down again.

‘So, Jane, when can we go out on the other trip?’ said Libby.

‘Most days, really. It’s just that the body seemed to make everybody want to go round the island,’ said Jane.

‘Ghouls,’ said Fran.

‘Well, yes, but good for business. It’s a shorter trip, so they can do more. Normally George would go round the island a couple of times, while Bert would go to the cove once, then the next day they’d change over.’

‘So somebody goes every day?’

‘Unless the weather’s bad. Sometimes if there aren’t many people about they’ll have a day off, or one of them will.’

‘Look we’re nearly there, now,’ said Libby. ‘Any more of those olives left, Jane?’

‘So what was all that about The Alexandria?’

said Libby, as they walked back along Harbour Street after thanking Jane and George. ‘You know it’s supposed to be under wraps.’

‘Sorry,’ said Fran. ‘I just had an idea.’

‘One of those special ideas? Or just an idea?’

‘Just an idea.’ Fran looked up at The Alexandria. ‘I just wondered if any of the Polish community were working there.’

‘Oh.’ Libby looked up too. ‘Actually, that is a good idea. I suppose Ian’s made enquiries among all the immigrant workers in the hotels? Wouldn’t he have done the same with any builders? They’re supposed to be very good, aren’t they?’

‘As builders? I think so.’

‘Well, wouldn’t he have asked them?’

‘I suppose so.’ Fran took out her key. ‘Are you coming in?’ ‘No, I’ll get back home,’ said Libby. ‘But I really want to go to that cove. When do you want to go?’ ‘I’m not sure I do,’ said Fran, unlocking her door. ‘Won’t Ben go with you?’ ‘Spoilsport. Oh, I’ll get someone. And will you ask Ian about the builders? And your sea moment?’ ‘Yes, yes and yes,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘Just give us a chance.’

Libby drove home to Steeple Martin in a thoughtful frame of mind. She had thoroughly enjoyed the boat trip and wished it could have been longer, but what was worrying her more was Fran’s state of mind. From warning Libby that she had nearly put her foot in it at the beginning of the trip to doing it herself at the end, she had been most unlike herself. Her “moment” had been the most dramatic Libby had witnessed, and was worrying in itself, but it was Fran’s apparent searching for other ideas that had her friend puzzled.

Libby fully believed in Fran’s intermittent psychic predictions as they had been proved right every time, but she was convinced that being put under pressure by the police in the shape of Ian Connell was forcing Fran to come up with ideas for which there was no evidence, psychic or otherwise.

‘So what exactly is going on at The Alexandria?’ she asked Ben a little later. ‘It all seems to be so hush-hush.’

Ben shrugged. ‘It’s because it’s still legally owned by Bella,’ he said. ‘although that lawyer Robert Grimshaw’s formed a trust to administer it, according to Bella’s wishes. He thinks it will be adverse publicity if any of the details come out. And he’s got a soft spot for Bella.’

‘Right. And the builders? Are they Polish?’

‘Some of them, why?’ Ben eyed her for a moment. ‘Oh, I see. The body on the island again. Well, nobody’s been reported missing, so I doubt it’s one of them. Anyway, there are loads of immigrant workers in Nethergate this year. Could be any one of them.’

‘Fran’s got farms in her head.’

‘Well, yes, fruit pickers. Although the numbers are down this year because of the new government legislation.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Libby sighed. ‘More restrictive laws.’

Ben grinned at her. ‘Absolutely. When are you going to cut and run, Lib?’

Libby sighed again. ‘If it wasn’t for you and the children, I’d go now.’

‘Where to, though? Everywhere in Europe is subject to the same laws.’

‘And not the same interpretation,’ said Libby. ‘You know that full well. And I’m not going to get into an argument with you, so that’s that.’

‘So, then. Fruit pickers. Legal numbers are down, so presumably illegal immigrants are taking up the slack,’ said Ben.

‘And this bloke must be one of them.’ Libby gazed down at the soup she was stirring. ‘I wonder why the police haven’t traced him yet?’

‘He probably hasn’t been reported missing if he’s not supposed to be here.’

‘But they must have some idea of which farms are using these people?’ Libby looked up. ‘They’re being exploited, aren’t they?’

‘I’m sure the police are onto them, but it’s probably quite a big operation. Connell will have already done something about that.’

Libby ladled soup into two bowls. ‘I hope so,’ she said, ‘but I still don’t really see what the Transnistrian woman and the Italian girl have to do with anything, do you?’

‘No. I think it’s Fran making assumptions.’

‘Exactly. She’s under too much pressure.’ Libby put a bowl down in front of Ben and sat down herself. ‘And yet she did have this very convincing “moment” on the boat.’

‘That’s what’s so interesting,’ said Ben. ‘She’s had those before, hasn’t she? When she went to The Laurels after her aunt had died? But this was even more dramatic, you said?’

‘She all but passed out.’ Libby sighed. ‘The other times are when she sort of knows things without being told. And that’s what she’s trying to find now, I’m sure. Ian’s investing in her to the extent of pushing her into the arms of Kent and Coast Television and she feels she’s got to justify his faith, yet the only things that have really come out of it have been her sea moment and her feeling about Jane’s house, which has nothing to do with anything at all.’

Ben paused with his soup spoon half way to his mouth. ‘Are you sure Jane’s got nothing to do with all this?’

‘Not you, too.’ Libby frowned at him. ‘That’s what Harry said. How can she have anything to do with it? She’s only been here a year, and she just happened to be on the boat when the body was spotted.’

Ben sipped his soup. ‘But that’s the point,’ he said. ‘She was on that boat.’

Libby put her spoon down and stared at him in horror. ‘You’re not suggesting she was actually supposed to be on that boat? To spot the body?’

Ben shrugged. ‘Well, it makes a sort of sense, doesn’t it? No one else had spotted it.’

Libby stared at him for a moment longer. ‘I just don’t believe it,’ she said finally. ‘And why, for goodness’ sake?’

Ben sighed. ‘I don’t know, do I? You’re the detective. I was just saying what seemed obvious.’

Libby thought. ‘It doesn’t seem obvious to me,’ she said eventually. ‘And it’s no good asking Fran at the moment, is it? She’ll go off on a wild goose chase.’

‘And that’s usually you, isn’t it?’ Ben grinned slyly.

‘They haven’t turned out to be wild goose chases, have they?’ said Libby. ‘I admit I’m not very scientific, but I’ve got there in the end.’

‘Well, let’s forget about it, now,’ said Ben. ‘We’ve got the whole weekend to look forward to without thinking about bodies and Italians, so finish your soup and let’s get on with it.’

Chapter Thirteen

FRAN WAS SOMEWHAT PUZZLED to find herself outside Jane Maurice’s house later that afternoon. Feeling confused and unsettled, she’d decided to go for a walk without thinking about where she was going. And now, here she was.

She gazed up at the house wondering why it seemed important. Turning to sit on a bench overlooking the sea, she tried to analyse the feeling. As usual, she was unable to do so. There was none of the suffocating blackness that she now associated with death, simply a feeling that the house was important. Not Jane herself, Fran acknowledged, just the house. But important to what? Surely not the body on the island? She searched her mind trying to find connections, aware as she was doing so that this was just what Libby said she’d been doing – trying too hard – when the front door opened and a man came down the whitewashed steps. Terry? she wondered. But this man looked older than Terry, whom Libby had described as around thirty.

Good-looking, she thought, very dark and going grey. This must be Jane’s new tenant. Her eyes followed him down the hill and past The Alexandria.

‘Fran?’

Fran jumped and turned round. ‘Oh, Jane! You startled me.’

‘I just wondered what you were doing sitting here outside my house.’ Jane stood with her arms folded, frowning suspiciously.

‘Nothing.’ Fran laughed a little guiltily. ‘I just found myself here. I expect it was a result of our conversation on the boat.’ She nodded down the hill. ‘Is that your new tenant?’

Jane’s expression cleared. ‘Mike, yes. He seems very pleasant.’

‘I thought he wasn’t moving in until Monday?’

‘Oh, the agents cleared his money and his references, so there didn’t seem any point in waiting,’ said Jane. ‘Besides, the quicker he’s in, the quicker I start getting rent.’

‘Is he English?’

‘English? With a name like Mike Charteris? I should say so. Why do you ask?’

‘He looks so dark.’ Fran smiled brightly. ‘Don’t take any notice of me, I’ve got foreigners on the brain.’

‘Understandable, I suppose,’ said Jane. ‘Look, would you like to come up and have a cup of tea? Terry might come up as well in a minute. He’s been doing something to the locks on the downstairs flat, so I owe him a cup.’

‘Love to.’ Fran stood up and smoothed down her skirt. ‘Won’t Terry mind?’

‘No, of course not. Why should he?’ Jane led the way up the steps to the front door. Fran admired its stained glass panels and then, as she stepped inside, felt a shiver of recognition. She stopped.

‘Anything the matter?’ Jane turned back.

‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Just struck cool coming in from that sun.’

‘I know. Quite cold, these old Victorian houses, aren’t they? Come on up.’

So she’d been right, thought Fran. There was something about this house. But it was nothing to do with the body on the island.

While Fran was admiring the view over the bay, she heard the door open behind her.

‘Oh, sorry.’

Fran turned round to find herself face to face with a tall, good-looking young man in a T-shirt and jeans.

‘You must be Terry?’ she said. ‘I’m Fran.’

‘Oh, right.’ He wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out. ‘The lady who lives on Harbour Street?’

‘That’s right. Jane told you, did she?’

Faint spots of colour appeared on Terry’s cheeks. ‘Yeah, well. We had a drink the other night.’

‘Right.’ Fran nodded. Libby was right, then. Romance was in the air.

Jane came in carrying two mugs, and went a similar shade of pink. ‘Oh, Terry,’ she said. ‘I’ll get another mug.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Terry, backing towards the door. ‘You’ve got a guest.’

‘No, no,’ said Jane hastily, ‘I was telling Fran about you.’

This time they both went even pinker, to Fran’s amusement.

‘I believe you met my friend Libby, too,’ she said, to diffuse the situation.

‘Yes.’ Terry nodded and looked towards the kitchen. ‘Shall I get myself a mug, Jane?’

Gosh, they’ve progressed quickly, thought Fran, remembering what Libby had told her about their relationship.

‘No, I’ll get it.’ Jane hurried back towards the kitchen and Fran sat down.

‘Lovely view this flat’s got,’ said Fran. ‘I suppose yours is similar?’

‘Not as good, because it’s lower down, but yeah. Good.’ Terry offered a small smile.

‘And you were here when Jane’s aunt still lived in the ground floor flat?’

‘Only just. Before she went into a home.’ Terry shifted in his chair and looked towards the kitchen. His expression changed to one of relief as Jane came through the door.

‘Aunt Jessica?’ She put Terry’s mug on a side table by his chair. ‘She went into a home a year before she died, didn’t she Terry?’

‘Yes.’ Terry took an unwise sip of his hot tea and winced. ‘I wasn’t here all the time, and Mrs Finch couldn’t get up and down from the basement, so no one could look after her.’

‘Basement?’

‘What they call a garden flat. The ground floor is actually above ground level.’

‘Of course, the steps up to the front door. So Mrs Finch has her own entrance?’

‘Yes, which is at the back with no steps to go down. Ideal for her. She’s quite old.’ Jane sipped her own tea and flashed a glance towards Terry. ‘You help her, though, don’t you, Terry?’

Terry shrugged. ‘Now and then. Little jobs, you know. Like I do for you.’

Fran looked from one to the other and hid a smile. It was rare in her experience, to see a young couple in the throes of this sort of old fashioned courtship. She hoped it would last.

‘Mrs Finch was here when your aunt was here, too, was she?’

‘Yes. She used to come here when Aunt Jess ran it as a B&B. I told Libby, I think she looks on me as an upstart.’

‘Your aunt must have inspired loyalty,’ said Fran.

‘I think her guests liked it because it was informal and Nethergate is such a lovely, traditional seaside place.’

Fran’s gaze turned back to the window. ‘It certainly is. I’ve loved it since I used to come on holiday as a child.’

‘Libby said something about that,’ said Jane. ‘Where did you stay?’

‘In the cottage I live in now,’ smiled Fran. ‘My uncle owned it.’

‘Oh, I see. Like me, then.’ Jane grinned happily.

‘More or less,’ agreed Fran. ‘Did you stay with your aunt when you were a child?’

‘Yes, often. I didn’t see her so much after I grew up, and now of course, I feel guilty.’

‘Did she have no children of her own?’ Fran tutted. ‘Sorry, that was insensitive. She can’t have done if she left the house to you, can she?’

‘No, she never married,’ said Jane. ‘There was some talk in the family about a man during the war, but I was too young to know anything about it.’

‘Was she a career woman?’ asked Fran. ‘After all, this house must have cost quite a lot, whenever she bought it.’

‘I’ve never thought about that,’ said Jane. ‘I suppose she must have bought it, because otherwise it would have been left to her and my grandfather.’

‘He was her brother?’

‘Yes. My father was her nephew and she treated him like a son.’ Jane gazed at the window.

‘Sorry, I’ve been being awfully nosy,’ said Fran.

‘No, you haven’t. It’s fascinating.’ Jane turned bright eyes on Fran. ‘I shall have to do some digging.’ She looked across at Terry who was trying to look as though he wasn’t there. ‘Will you help me?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Of course. Whatever.’

Fran finished her tea. ‘I must be going. I didn’t intend to stay out this long. Will you let me know if you find anything out? Not if it’s personal of course. It’s just as you say, it’s fascinating.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Jane got up to see her out. ‘I’ve just never thought about it before. It was always Aunt Jess’s house – it never occurred to me to wonder how she came by it.’

‘And it shouldn’t have occurred to you, either,’ said Libby later, answering her mobile. ‘You’re seeing mysteries where there aren’t any.’

‘Jane thought it was interesting, too,’ protested Fran.

‘Jane was probably in a state of high excitement because Terry was there.’

‘Oh.’ Fran looked out of her window at her own view of the bay. ‘Oh, and I saw the new tenant too.’

‘Really? He’s all above board, then?’

Fran sighed. ‘Yes. Very English and normal-looking.’

‘So nothing to investigate there?’

‘No,’ said Fran, sitting down suddenly. ‘Nothing at all.’

Libby sighed gustily. ‘So, what are you going to do? Speak to Ian about your sea moment and the Polish builders?’

‘If there are any Polish builders. They might all be bona fide British builders.’

‘Or bona fide Polish builders.’

‘You know what I mean.’ It was Fran’s turn to sigh. ‘But yes, I’ll call him on Monday.’

‘And Kent and Coast?’

‘I’m going to try and get out of it.’

‘No, don’t do that,’ said Libby slowly. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

Behind her, Ben groaned.

‘What?’ said Fran.

Libby turned and scowled at Ben. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘When I’m alone.’

‘So did you call Ian?’ Libby, on Monday morning, floundered through a muddy farm track in her borrowed wellington boots, while a fine rain created a mini-stream down the back of her neck.

Fran, a few paces ahead following the disapproving back of Campbell McLean, nodded.

‘What did he say?’ Libby gasped, sliding dangerously close to the splits.

‘Not a lot.’ Fran’s voice wafted back covered in icicles. That makes me today’s most unpopular person, thought Libby, wondering why, if they all felt this way, they’d actually agreed to make this investigative trip. Campbell McLean wasn’t even filming.

‘Bet his editor’s not too keen,’ muttered Libby to herself, as the recalcitrant boots took her face to face with an enquiring cow over a wire-link fence. ‘All this time wasted on nothing, when he could be doing lovely little fillers all over the region.’

‘What did you say?’ Fran stopped and looked back.

‘Nothing.’ Libby concentrated on getting the boots back on track.

‘If you’re complaining, you’ve only got yourself to blame.’ Fran turned and began to pick her way along the track. ‘This was your idea.’

‘I’m perfectly well aware of that,’ said Libby, drawing herself up to her full height and looking haughtily up at Fran. ‘And if it was such a mad one, why have both you and McLean over there gone along with it?’

Fran was silent.

‘There see, you’ve got nothing to say, have you?’ Libby looked smug.

Arriving in a somewhat dilapidated and run down looking farm yard, Fran stopped and watched as Campbell McLean, braving the unfriendly overtures of a sheepdog, disappeared round the side of a barn.

‘After our conversation yesterday, I called Ian, told him about the sea moment and the Polish builders,’ she shot Libby a further frosty look, ‘and then mentioned your idea. He said as there’d been nothing from the television end so far, we might as well follow it up. So he set it up with McLean. And you saw how pleased he was about it when we got here.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘When? I didn’t have it confirmed until this morning, and I didn’t think I had to report to you after every telephone conversation.’

Libby looked up from under her brows. ‘Hmm,’ she said.

‘And what does that mean?’ Fran let out her breath in an angry gust.

‘Nothing,’ said Libby again. Fran stared at her for a long moment.

‘Almost monochromatic in the rain, isn’t it?’ said Libby after a few minutes silence. ‘I wonder where that man’s got to?’

She was answered shortly by the man’s reappearance, trailing a stocky individual wearing a body warmer and a cap.

‘Farmer,’ muttered Libby. ‘Central casting.’

Fran compressed her lips.

‘Fran, Libby, this is Mr Budgen,’ said Campbell McLean, as he came level with them.

Fran smiled and held out her hand. Mr Budgen, with a surly nod, shook it. Libby kept her hands in her pockets. The sheepdog was circling them making unpleasant noises and Campbell McLean watched it nervously.

‘So what was it you wanted, then?’ Budgen looked from one to the other of the women.

‘Just a short piece on the overseas farm workers for the evening news,’ said Fran, and hesitated.

‘Because of the new legislation,’ put in Libby, earning herself surprised looks from all her listeners. ‘There are fewer workers, aren’t there? This year? And if you can’t get your crop picked in time, you’ll lose money?’

Budgen’s sandy brows drew down until they formed a straight line above his eyes.

‘So?’

‘Strawberry crop was affected, wasn’t it?’ Libby noticed with satisfaction that her words were striking a chord. ‘Because only Romanians and Bulgarians can come over now, and the other EU workers don’t want to do fruit picking any more.’

‘How do you know this?’ Fran asked in astonishment.

Libby smiled in triumph. ‘Ben. He knows all about it. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Now he’s in charge of the Manor Estate.’

Campbell McLean screwed up his eyes and glared at Libby. ‘And he is?’

Libby glared back. ‘My partner. None of your business.’

McLean looked taken aback.

‘So,’ she continued, returning to Budgen, ‘you’ve still got workers, but not through SAWS?’

‘Eh? Saws?’ said Fran in a faint voice.

‘Seasonal Agricultural Workers Scheme,’ said Libby offhandedly. ‘Open to abuse of course.’

Fran shook her head. ‘I’m lost,’ she said.

‘No, I remember,’ said McLean. ‘We’ve done pieces on it before, several times, and there was that big case a couple of years ago, wasn’t there?’

Libby nodded, a teacher bestowing approval on a bright pupil.

‘So, Mr Budgen, is that what’s happening?’ Libby turned back to the farmer, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

‘I’ve got workers,’ he muttered.

‘Bulgarians and Romanians?’ asked Libby.

Budgen nodded. ‘Far as I know.’

‘Could we talk to some of them?’ said McLean.

‘Don’t know much English, most of ‘em,’ said Budgen.

‘Well, can we bring the cameras back and interview you and film some of them working?’

‘Behind enough as it is,’ said Budgen. ‘Don’t want no more interruptions.’

‘Are there any other farms who might be willing to talk to us?’ asked Fran.

Budgen shrugged. ‘’Ave to ask ’em, won’t you? Who gave you my name, anyways?’

‘Picked you out with a pin,’ said McLean with what he obviously hoped was a winning smile. It didn’t win Mr Budgen.

‘Got to get on,’ he said. ‘See yourselves off the land.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Gal,’ he said, and the sheepdog followed him reluctantly from the yard.

The three of them watched him go, then Libby turned round with a sigh.

‘Anything?’ Campbell asked Fran.

Fran shook her head.

‘Do you think he’s really only got Bulgarians and Romanians?’ asked Libby. ‘Because I don’t.’

‘Undercover operation, do you think?’ McLean stepped up to walk alongside her down the muddy track. The rain had stopped.

‘Yours, you mean?’ Libby turned to look at him.

‘How would you do that? And I thought Inspector Connell only wanted you to provide a cover for Fran?’

‘He did, but the understanding was we could do our own investigation. That was the whole idea in the first place.’

‘But not an investigation into Fran,’ said Libby.

‘No.’ McLean sounded regretful.

‘I don’t see how you could go back there now. He’d be on the lookout for everything.’

‘We could find someone else to go in.’

‘And say what? No, if you want to do secret filming you’ve got to have someone who isn’t suspicious of you to start with. A different farmer.’ She looked up at him. ‘How did you find him, by the way?’

‘I was obfuscating a bit back there,’ Campbell grinned. ‘I knew perfectly well about SAWS and the court case in 2003. He was one of the farms that came under scrutiny. He wasn’t charged with anything, but I took a punt on him anyway.’

‘Any other farms on that list?’ asked Libby.

‘I’ll see what I can come up with.’ He looked at her with renewed interest. ‘You’re the detective minded one here, aren’t you? Not Fran.’

Libby laughed. ‘So I’m always told. My nearest and dearest get very exasperated with me.’

‘How did it start?’

Libby looked up, frowning. ‘You’re not going to do a number on me, now, are you?’

‘Not unless you’re psychic as well,’ he said.

Libby told him about the murder in Steeple Martin that had introduced her to Fran, and the subsequent cases in which they had been involved.

‘But you must know that,’ she concluded, ‘or you wouldn’t have come after her in the first place.’

‘I do now, but only because Jane – Maurice, was it? – on the Mercury told me.’ He looked back at Fran, who was trailing some paces behind them. ‘I don’t think her heart’s in this.’

‘No.’ Libby looked back, too. ‘She would far rather forget all about it and live a normal life.’

‘That’s what she said to me when we first met,’ said Campbell. ‘I was gobsmacked when that Inspector called and said she’d agreed to do the investigation.’

Libby sighed. ‘Yes. And I haven’t helped, really. Still, at least you’ve got a vague lead for a story, haven’t you, even if it isn’t anything to do with the body on the island.’

‘The illegal workers, you mean? Yes, if I can work out how to get into it. I’ll talk to my editor.’

‘Who won’t be pleased that you’ve wasted this morning?’ grinned Libby.

‘Ah, but I can justify it, now, can’t I?’ He grinned back. ‘Reconnaissance.’

Chapter Fourteen

‘COME ON, THEN,’ SAID Fran, when she and Libby were seated in the pub in Steeple Martin. ‘What’s all this SAWS stuff? I felt such an idiot back there.’

Libby looked a little shamefaced. ‘I only found out about most of it yesterday,’ she said. ‘You know I said I’d looked it all up on the internet last week? Well, I wasn’t really looking in the right places, and Ben knows all about the current legislation from farmers, so we went through it yesterday afternoon. It’s what we thought was going on, about the illegal workers, but the gangmasters have moved on to other countries, now, which is why we had the Transnistrian connection.’

‘So what happens? How do they operate?’

‘Well,’ said Libby, taking a sip of her lager, ‘they recruit people overseas who want to come and work over here, and provide them with false documents. Then they have farmers who will turn a blind eye over here. In fact, SAWS isn’t in force any longer, because of this new legislation, and as I said earlier, apparently the other migrant workers don’t want to do seasonal fruit picking.’

‘But it was in force when this Transnistrian woman first came over?’

‘Must have been. She must have come over on false papers, then as she wanted to stay here, borrowed the Italian girl’s passport and got the council job.’

‘Mmm.’ Fran gazed down into her tonic water.

‘But as you said, it’s got nothing to do with the body on the island.’

‘No.’ Libby glanced quickly at her. ‘Sorry about this morning. I genuinely thought if you had your mind set on farms it might trigger something and you would have a breakthrough.’

‘And I didn’t.’ Fran sighed. ‘In fact the only things I can be sure of are nothing to do with the body.’

‘The sea moment was.’

‘Yes, but I already knew about that death.’ Fran shook her head. ‘No, I’d better give it up. I’ll tell Ian.’ She grinned at Libby. ‘And you can go on and be Campbell’s right hand woman instead.’

‘No, neither of us could stand it.’ Libby grinned back. ‘What did Ian say about your sea moment, by the way? Or the case in general?’

‘I told you – not a lot. “Our investigations are continuing”, was more or less it.’

‘But what about the boat?’

‘He didn’t seem to attach any importance to it. After all, as we said, we were near the site of the body, and I don’t have to be at exactly the same spot as someone died, do I? I knew about it, that was enough.’

They sat in silence for a moment, while the rain, which had started again, dripped down inside the huge fireplace.

‘So do you think that farmer is employing illegal workers?’ asked Fran eventually.

‘From the way he reacted, yes,’ said Libby.

‘And he wouldn’t know if one of them was missing?’

Libby looked at her. ‘He wouldn’t want to know, would he? Why?’

‘So there’d be no way of tracking them back to their employer?’

‘If they’re dead with no clothes on, no.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic. You know what I mean.’

‘I do, and it’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? No one’s going to own up to losing an illegal worker.’

‘No.’ Fran sighed, and they relapsed into silence.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Libby finished her lager and twirled the glass.

‘Go home, I suppose. Unless you want another drink?’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant in general. With your life.’

Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Good heavens! That’s a big question.’

‘Well, if you’re giving up on this investigation, you must want something to do. You don’t have to work any more. Will you take up a hobby?’

Fran laughed. ‘I’ve got one already, haven’t I? Props lady for the panto.’

‘That doesn’t start for months yet.’

‘Macramé? Crochet? The WI?’

Libby frowned. ‘Don’t be silly. You know what I mean.’

‘Yes, Lib, I know what you mean. But for the last few months I’ve been quite happy pottering around in the cottage, haven’t I? Helping Guy occasionally in the shop.’

‘But it was a novelty, then. Now it’s real life. And especially when the tourists go, it’ll be bleak and cold, and Guy won’t need you in the shop.’

‘I moved in at Christmas, Lib. I’ve done bleak and cold in Nethergate.’

Libby sighed. ‘You’re determined to misunderstand me, aren’t you?’

‘I do understand you. And yes, I shall probably want to do something with my time. I’ve always had something to do, even if it was waiting for nonexistent calls from my agent. Or investigating houses for Goodall and Smythe.’

‘So what will it be?’

Fran put her head on one side and looked at Libby. ‘What do you think about writing?’

‘Writing?’ Libby looked bewildered. ‘I do that. Pantos.’

‘Fiction. A novel, perhaps.’

‘Blimey!’ Libby was awed. ‘Do you think you could?’

‘I don’t know, but I’d like to try.’

‘How will you start?’

‘I thought I might try a creative writing course. There’s a couple of evening classes.’

‘Where? Could I come?’

Fran hesitated.

‘Oh, well, if you’d prefer that I didn’t,’ Libby sat back in her chair looking huffy.

‘I just wanted to do something on my own.’ Fran looked down at the table. ‘You’re such a strong character, Lib, that no one notices me, and soon it would be your writing class, not mine.’

An appalled silence fell. When Fran finally looked up, she was horrified to see tears streaming down Libby’s cheeks, while she fumbled in her basket for a tissue.

‘I’m sorry, Fran.’ Libby hiccupped and blotted her eyes. ‘I’m such an insensitive cow.’

‘Oh, God, Lib, don’t.’ Fran reached across and took her friend’s hand. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘Yes, you should.’ Libby took a deep breath and sat up straight. ‘I try and run people’s lives, that’s my trouble. Everyone accuses me of interfering, don’t they? You, Ben, Pete, Harry – and you’re all right. What I forget is that sometimes it actually hurts people.’

Fran laughed. ‘Don’t be humble, Lib, it doesn’t suit you. And none of us would want you any different, you know that. As long as you know when to pull back.’

‘I might need you to tell me,’ admitted Libby, ‘like you just did.’ She gave her face another swipe with the tissue. ‘God, look at that. Mascara all over the place. What does my face look like?’

‘Shiny,’ laughed Fran, ‘but not blotchy. Come on, have another drink and I’ll tell you all about my writing project.’

Later in the afternoon, when Fran had driven back to Nethergate, Libby mooched up the Manor drive in search of Ben. The theatre was, of course, locked, but the front door of The Manor itself was open.

‘Hello?’ Libby pushed the door and stepped into the hall.

‘That you, Libby?’ A voice called from somewhere to her left.

‘Hetty? Yes, it’s me. Are you in the kitchen?’

‘Yeah – come on in. Kettle’s on.’

The manor kitchen was warm, the Aga on permanently, summer and winter alike. Ben’s mother, Hetty, stood by the deep butler sink looking out at the drowned fields and copses that constituted her domain.

‘Sit down, gal.’ Hetty waved Libby to the Windsor chair by the Aga. ‘Our Ben’s somewhere outside. Got ’is mobile number?’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter,’ said Libby, sinking into the chair. ‘I just needed company.’

‘Yeah?’ Hetty cocked her head as she lifted up the singing kettle. ‘Don’t normally come lookin’ for company.’

‘No.’ Libby stared at the Aga miserably.

‘Well, I ain’t goin’ to be much company if you don’t want to talk. I’ll just pop into the scullery to get the milk and see how you feel when I get back.’

Libby stood up and went to look out of the window. She had to admit to feeling a bit silly now. A childish desire to unload her woes had driven her up here, and yet she could hardly tell Hetty, who one day might be her mother-in-law, all about her character flaws. The thought made Libby go hot all over, and she hurriedly turned on the cold tap and held her wrists underneath the water.

‘Hot flush, gal?’ Hetty came in with a bottle of milk.

Libby made an ambivalent noise in her throat and turned off the tap.

‘So what you investigatin’ now?’ asked Hetty, pouring strong tea into large mugs.

‘Nothing,’ said Libby. ‘Not any more.’

‘Ben said something about that body on the island.’

‘Not now. Fran was asked to help, but she can’t, so that’s that.’

Hetty sat down at the long table. ‘She got something else to do?’

‘No, she just can’t – um – see anything, if you know what I mean.’

‘Oh, ah. Can’t psychic it up?’

Libby giggled. ‘That’s right.’

‘Just as well. Shouldn’t go gettin’ involved in all them murders.’ ‘It wasn’t our fault, Hetty,’ Libby protested. ‘Still, don’t want to go lookin’ for ’em.’ ‘No,’ sighed Libby. ‘So is that what’s gettin’ you down?’ ‘Not really.’ Libby looked down into her mug. ‘Fran told me off for being overbearing.’

‘Told you off?’

‘Put me right. Very gently.’

‘Hmm.’ Hetty made a face.

‘I know, I know. They all tell me I’m nosy and interfering, but I didn’t realise I was that bad.’

‘Don’t suppose you are, gal. You have a think about what she said, and I reckon you’ll find out that it wasn’t that bad after all.’

Libby looked up. ‘You could be right, Hetty.’

‘Course I’m right. Had to be, haven’t I? All these years.’ She reached across and patted Libby’s hand. ‘And you’re part of the family, gal, and I know my family.’

For the second time that day, Libby found tears filling her eyes, and she swallowed hard. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

Hetty administered a final pat and stood up. ‘You call our Ben, now,’ she said. ‘He’ll be lookin’ for an excuse to come in out of the rain.’

Libby fished another tissue and her mobile out of her basket, and after wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, punched in Ben’s number.

‘He’s coming in,’ she said, finishing the call and returning the mobile to the basket.

‘Thought so.’ Hetty turned away from the sink and flapped a hand at a trug full of potatoes. ‘Want to give me a hand peelin’ those? Stayin’ for dinner, are you?’

‘I ought to go back and get out of these clothes,’ said Libby, ‘and feed Sidney.’

‘After you’ve seen Ben you can pop back and change, then come up her for your dinner. Go on, I don’t see enough of you these days.’ Hetty gave her a brief smile, and Libby hugged her.

‘Thanks, Het,’ she said. ‘I’d love to.’

When Ben arrived in the kitchen, Hetty shooed them off to her sitting room and Libby told him everything that had happened that day.

‘Oh, Lib,’ he said when she’d finished.

‘Was she right, Ben?’

He smiled and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Of course she was right, but you’ve taken it the wrong way.’

‘Hetty said something like that. Your mum’s lovely, you know.’

‘I know she is, and very wise indeed.’

‘So how should I have taken it?’

‘The only thing you’re guilty of is sometimes not seeing the effect you have on other people,’ said Ben carefully.

‘I realise that,’ said Libby.

‘Fran was right – you do have a strong personality. You’re warm, funny and impulsive, and nobody can ignore you. Yes, you’re nosy and you do interfere, but only from the best motives. The trouble is, as Fran said, if you went to classes with her you would become so enthusiastic that they would be your writing classes, not hers. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. She wants to do something of her own.’

Libby nodded. ‘Of course I see that, I just feel so guilty that I hadn’t noticed. How many times have I done that to other people, do you think?’

Ben laughed. ‘Dozens, I expect. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t mean it.’

‘But, Ben, Fran has got something of her own. She’s got her talent. No one else has that.’

‘I know, but she doesn’t like it, does she?’ He gave her shoulders a squeeze and kissed her cheek. ‘Now go on, you go home and feed the walking stomach, then come back here all polished and perfumed and have dinner with us. You can fascinate my dad. He needs cheering up.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Libby stood up. ‘Isn’t he too good?’

Ben shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. Much the same, but it’s obvious that he’s getting weaker.’

‘Poor Greg,’ said Libby.

The rain had stopped again as Libby splashed through muddy puddles all the way to Allhallow’s Lane. Sidney greeted her with the anguished howls of the starving, and after replenishing his food bowl, she went to run herself a bath.

Well, she thought, that was an interesting day. From the meeting at Budgen’s farm, where she was sure they had stumbled on a nest of illegal workers, to Fran giving up the investigation and unwittingly bringing Libby face to face with herself.

Ben and Hetty had both gone a long way to making her see that it wasn’t quite as bad as she’d first thought, but it still made her feel churned up inside. Thoughtfully, she slid down into the warm water.

Her thoughts turned back to Budgen and his workers. He hadn’t confirmed whether they were Romanian and Bulgarian, and Libby was positive they weren’t. Why she should be so certain, she couldn’t say, unless it was simply his uncooperative attitude and the generally forbidding aspect of his farm, but she really hoped Campbell McLean would carry on that part of the investigation and expose him. Because, of course, that was the only investigation that was going to be done, now. And she and Fran were no longer part of it.

Chapter Fifteen

BEN BROUGHT A CUP of tea and the telephone to Libby’s bedside at half past seven the next morning.

‘That Jane from the Mercury,’ he said, bending over to kiss her. ‘See you later.’

Libby struggled on to one elbow and took the phone.

‘Jane?’ she said. ‘You’re very early. What’s happened?’

‘Sorry, Libby, I just thought you ought to know. I tried to ring Fran but she wasn’t answering.’

‘Ought to know what?’ Libby managed a sip of rather too hot tea and winced.

‘Terry. He was attacked last night.’ Jane sounded as though she was near to tears.

‘How awful,’ said Libby, wondering why Jane thought she ought to know. ‘Is he very bad?’

‘He’s in hospital. There’s –’ Libby heard a gulp ‘– a policeman by his bed.’

‘Oh, lord. That does sound serious.’

‘Yes. I stayed at the hospital as long as I could, but he’s under sedation now, so they said I should come home.’ She wants company, thought Libby. That’s why she’s ringing.

‘Where is he? Kent and Canterbury?’

‘Yes. I’m outside there now.’

‘Come here, Jane. It’s on your way. You won’t go in to work, will you?’ ‘No – I can’t. Can I really come?’

‘Of course, silly. Are you all right to drive?’

‘Yes – yes. I think so.’

‘Do you want me to come and get you?’

‘No, I’ll be fine. I’ll take it slowly, and I’ll be going against the traffic, won’t I?’

‘All right, then,’ said Libby, swinging her legs out of bed. ‘I’ll have the kettle on. See you in a bit.’

By the time Jane arrived, Libby was dressed and tea was made in the big enamel teapot.

‘Or would you prefer coffee?’ Libby asked, as she shepherded Jane into the garden.

‘No, tea would be lovely, thanks.’ Jane subsided into one of the chairs under the cherry tree. The rain had disappeared overnight and the sun was doing its best to dry up the remaining puddles.

Libby brought out a tray with mugs and biscuits and Sidney butted Jane’s legs. She smiled.

‘Tell me all about it, then,’ said Libby, handing over a mug.

Jane drew a breath. ‘He was mugged,’ she said.

‘Did you find him? Is that why you were at the hospital?’

‘No, it was the new tenant on his way home.’ Jane sipped her tea and Libby sighed.

‘Yes? Where?’

‘Oh – on the steps.’

‘The steps of the house? Was the front door open?’

Jane looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Just that if it was, he must have come out of the house. If it wasn’t, he was just going in.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Jane frowned. ‘The police didn’t say anything about that.’

‘They’ve questioned you?’

‘Yes.’

Drawing teeth wasn’t in it, thought Libby. ‘At home?’

‘No.’ Jane shook her head. ‘Sorry, Libby, I’m being a bit dim, aren’t I?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Libby, ‘you’ve obviously had a shock. Just tell me from the beginning – if you want to, that is.’

‘Right.’ Jane took another sip and put her mug on the table. ‘Last night I was in the office until late and didn’t get home until nearly eleven. There was a policeman on the doorstep and Mrs Finch and Mike were in the hall talking to two more. Apparently, Mike came home at about twenty past ten and found Terry on the steps. I don’t know about the door. He called the police and an ambulance.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘Well, the policemen asked who I was and where I’d been, then they asked me to let them into Terry’s flat, where they had a look round. There were no lights on, or anything, so I suppose he’d been on his way in when it happened. Then I asked if I could collect a couple of things and take them to Terry in hospital, although they both looked a bit gloomy and said they didn’t think he’d need them, which really worried me.’

‘But you took them anyway? You knew where to find things?’

Jane coloured. ‘No, I just went into the bathroom – oh, it’s so clean and neat, Libby, you wouldn’t believe – and took his toothbrush and toothpaste.’ The colour deepened. ‘And a deodorant. I just took what he might think of as essential.’

‘So you went to hospital.’

Jane nodded. ‘They sealed his room after me, and I left them my key. Then I went to the hospital.’

‘Did you see him?’

‘Oh, yes. And he was sort of conscious. He recognised me, anyway.’ The colour, which had faded, returned. ‘I held his hand, while I was allowed to, but not when the doctors were there, of course.’

‘So did they operate? What exactly is wrong?’

‘They didn’t tell me a lot because I’m not his next-of-kin, but he had head injuries and broken ribs as though he’d been kicked. They did something to him and he’s in a side room now.’

‘Not intensive care?’

‘No.’ Jane brightened. ‘I never thought of that. That’s good isn’t it?’

‘I would have thought so. Did he say anything to you? You said he recognised you.’

‘He tried to smile and say “Jane” when I first got there, but I think he was under a bit of sedation then, too. After that, he didn’t say anything. I had to sit in the waiting area most of the time, but they let me in to his room again about five this morning. Then they told me I should go home.’

‘What about his next-of-kin?’

‘I don’t know. They asked me when I first got there, but nobody said anything after that.’

Libby looked thoughtful. ‘I expect they had a good look around his flat and found an address book or something.’ She sipped her own tea. ‘So it was just a straightforward mugging?’

Jane looked surprised. ‘Well, yes. What else could it have been?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Just seems odd. You know, with Terry being ex-army. I would have thought he’d have given as good as he got.’

‘Not if they came up behind him and hit him on the head. That’s what seems to have happened.’

‘Did they get anything? Wallet? Money?’

‘Do you know, I didn’t ask.’ Jane frowned and picked up her mug. ‘I suppose they did.’

‘Well, perhaps you’ll find out more later. Will they tell you anything over the phone – with you not being next of kin?’

‘I shall go back later,’ said Jane, ‘and they know who I am, now.’

‘It might be different staff, though.’

‘Oh, well.’ Jane shrugged. ‘I’ll sort it out somehow.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea. I suppose I’d better ring the office, then I’ll go back and try to get some sleep.’

‘You’ve only been here five minutes,’ said Libby. ‘You still look a bit shaky. Why don’t you try and have a nap in my spare room?’

Jane hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I feel I ought to be at home in case anyone tries to get in touch.’

‘But you’ve got your mobile, haven’t you? If the police want you?’

‘Yes.’ Jane sat down again. ‘Perhaps I will, if you really don’t mind. I do feel a bit wobbly.’

‘Lack of sleep,’ said Libby. ‘Have another cup of tea and I’ll go and check on the sheets.’

When Libby came back into the garden ten minutes later, Jane was asleep with Sidney on her lap. Libby smiled, picked up the tray, took it inside and found her mobile.

‘Fran?’

‘Hi.’

‘I’ve got Jane Maurice here, and guess what?’

‘What?’

Libby told her everything Jane had told her and waited for a response.

‘She tried to call me,’ said Fran eventually.

‘I know, she told me, but you didn’t answer.’

‘I was in the shower.’ Fran sounded defensive and Libby grinned.

‘Anyway, what do you think?’

Fran sighed. ‘You want me to say it’s something to do with what I felt about her house, don’t you?’

‘Well, I did wonder.’

‘I’ve no idea, Lib.’ Fran sighed again. ‘I think my brain’s completely switched off, now. Do you think it’s connected?’

‘I just thought it was a coincidence, that’s all. Especially as the new tenant’s moved in.’

‘Are you suspicious of him?’

‘Well, he was the one who found Terry.’

‘Not surprising if Terry was on the steps of the house where he lived, I would have thought.’

‘All right, all right. Don’t be sarky.’

‘Sorry, Libby. I’m not being obstructive, I’m brain dead. Perhaps this is the end of my moments altogether.’

‘OK.’ It was Libby’s turn to sigh. ‘I’ll go off and do the Florence Nightingale bit. Speak to you soon.’

Jane was still asleep and Libby, mindful of the sun working its way out of the branches of the cherry tree, shook her gently awake.

‘You’ll get sunstroke if you stay here,’ she said. ‘Come on upstairs.’

Blearily, Jane followed her through the cottage and upstairs to where there were fresh navy sheets on the spare bed.

‘Bathroom just there,’ said Libby. ‘I won’t disturb you.’

She went downstairs and cleared the tea and breakfast things, before going into the conservatory and staring at the painting begun on the day the body was found on Dragon Island.

She knew she ought to do more work on it; she also knew she should think about doing more paintings. Guy could always sell her work, which was reasonably priced, and he’d even used some in reproduction on birthday and Christmas cards. While it didn’t exactly make her rich, it was an income she would hate to be without, even though Ben had assured her he was well able to “take care of her”, as he put it. But their Living Apart Together relationship, a LAT as it was now officially known, didn’t seem to Libby to fit into the traditional – or even out-dated – mould where man the hunter looked after woman the gatherer, and she preferred to remain independent.

But somehow, painting wasn’t holding her attention right now. It never did, she realised, when there was something else going on in her life. It was partly because it had now become a job rather than a hobby, which it had been before her marriage broke up and she moved to Steeple Martin. But now, despite the (almost) mutual decision to give up on the investigation, Libby found she couldn’t let it go. And it was disturbing her concentration.

But which investigation? Libby gave up on the painting and went back into the garden, where Sidney joined her as she lit a cigarette. The body on Dragon Island or Jane Maurice’s house? Or were they, as Fran had postulated, connected somehow? Libby shook her head at Sidney, who flattened his ears. And what, she wondered, had Fran said to Ian Connell about giving up the investigation? And come to that, what had Kent and Coast Television, in the shape of Campbell McLean, had to say about it? They wouldn’t be best pleased to have wasted their time.

But then again, Libby reflected, as she had thought yesterday, at least McLean now had a handle on the boorish Budgen and could possibly follow up the lead of illegal farm workers. There had been raids on restaurants employing illegal migrant workers recently, she knew, but had there been any on farms? If there had, they hadn’t featured on any news programmes as far as she knew, so perhaps McLean was in for a scoop after all. Especially if it turned out that the body was one of his workers, although, Libby conceded to herself, that would be a coincidence too far, as, indeed, the relationship between the body and the Transnistrian woman suggested by Fran was.

And then there was Jane Maurice’s house. Why did Fran feel there was something there? She hadn’t even said what, exactly. Something that had happened there? Something was hidden there? Or just someone who lived there? If so, and it had been the hapless Terry, Libby was certain Fran would have picked up on it, and the same applied to the new tenant, Mike Charteris, so that was that. Unless Fran was right, and her brain had shut down as far as picking up any extra sensory messages was concerned. ‘And that,’ Libby told Sidney firmly, ‘would be a tragedy.’

With that, she stood up and went inside to phone Harry.

Chapter Sixteen

HARRY, WHEN APPEALED TO, chose to come to Allhallow’s Lane rather than wait for Libby to join him at lunchtime. He appeared, in shorts and sandals, bearing a bunch of old roses that Libby correctly assumed were from the cottage garden behind the house he shared with Peter.

‘So, what’s it all about?’ he asked, settling into the chair recently vacated by Jane, and adjusting a battered straw hat on his head.

‘Where on earth did you get that?’ asked Libby, distracted.

‘I found it in an old trunk of Pete’s. He thinks it was his dad’s.’

‘Doesn’t he mind you wearing it?’

‘Course not. And James thinks it’s hilarious.’

‘Dear Jamie. How is he?’ Peter’s young brother was a favourite of Libby’s.

‘Fine. Good to his mother.’ Harry cackled.

‘Oh, yes, how is Millie?’

‘Still mad as a box of frogs. But seems to accept Pete and me, now.’

‘Well, yes. She came to your wedding, didn’t she?’

‘Try and remember it was a Civil Partnership, dearie. I didn’t actually go down the aisle in ivory tulle and a tiara.’

‘No, all right, but if I want to think of it as a wedding, I can, can’t I?’

‘Stupid old trout. Yes, you can. I give you permission.’ Harry took off the hat and waved it in front of his face before returning it to his head. ‘Now, come on. Tell all.’

Libby glanced up at the open spare room window. ‘Quietly,’ she said. ‘I don’t want her to hear.’

‘I’ll whisper, then,’ said Harry.

Libby told him everything that had happened yesterday, including Fran’s decision to “retire” and finishing up with Jane’s story.

Harry frowned. ‘And you want me to say what?’ he asked in a stage whisper.

‘It all seems too much of a coincidence to me,’ said Libby. ‘All of it. You agreed with me the other day. About Jane being involved.’

‘Ah, but you didn’t agree with me at the time,’ said Harry, fanning himself with his hat again.

‘No, I know, because other stuff hadn’t happened. Anyway, what do you think?’

Harry looked up into the cherry tree. ‘Not sure why you’re asking,’ he said.

‘Because I want to know if I’m barking up the wrong tree,’ said Libby.

‘Was that a pun?’ laughed Harry, tapping the trunk behind him.

‘No.’ Libby scowled at him. ‘Be serious.’

‘I am. And again, I’m asking why you want to know? Fran has decided not to be involved any more, therefore you aren’t either. Not that you ever had any official standing, anyway. So – why do you want to know what I think?’

Libby stared at him.

‘Don’t look so taken aback, Lib.’ Harry leant forward and patted her arm. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Libby, glumly.

‘You just can’t break the habit, that’s the problem,’ continued Harry. ‘The Miss Marple persona’s gotcha!’

‘I told you, I’m not a Miss Marple.’

‘You said that to Ben when we had those accidents at the theatre,’ said Harry, ‘but look what’s happened since.’

‘Not my fault,’ said Libby, looking like a sulky child.

‘You needn’t have got involved with Fran’s auntie last summer, or all the stuff last December.’

‘But Fran was asked,’ insisted Libby. ‘And I’m better at ferreting things out than she is. I had to be in on it all.’

‘All right, I’ll give you that,’ said Harry, ‘but now Fran’s given up, no one’s going to ask you, so you can stop ferreting.’

Libby glowered at him. He laughed.

‘So now what do you want to know?’ he said.

‘Am I seeing connections where there aren’t any? Jane’s Terry’s been attacked, Fran thinks there’s something about her house and was she actually supposed to see the body? That’s all,’ Libby finished plaintively.

‘I think you are seeing connections where there aren’t any, old love,’ said Harry. ‘I know I wondered about Jane when you first told me about it all, but I can’t really see it. Just let it alone. You’re providing a shoulder for missus upstairs, if anything else happens she’s bound to tell you, but until then just get on with being our nice old trout. Why don’t you and Ben go away for a few days?’

Libby sighed. ‘I can’t leave Sidney.’

‘Do that walking stomach good to starve for a few days,’ said Harry.

‘And Ben doesn’t feel he can leave the estate. Hetty couldn’t manage and Greg’s too poorly.’

‘I didn’t think there was that much of the estate left.’

‘There isn’t, but what there is has to be managed. We might be able to get away in the autumn, perhaps, before panto rehearsals start.’

‘Nah, that’s daft. You want to go away now, while the weather’s good.’ Harry looked at his watch. ‘Well, if you’re not going to offer me any refreshment, I’d better get back to the caff. Have to prep up for lunch. Can’t do anything in advance in this heat.’

‘I thought yesterday’s rain would have cooled things down.’ Libby stood up. ‘Do you want tea? Is it too early for a beer?’

‘Regretfully, I must decline, fair lady. But if you’re at a loose end when your guest goes you can pop down for a livener with me.’ Harry stood up and jammed his hat back on his head. ‘Put those roses in water or they won’t last.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Libby, as she opened the front door for him.

‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ he said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. ‘See you later.’

Well, that’s that, thought Libby, after putting the roses into a pretty china jug. An unbiased opinion. Leave it. With a sigh, she went back into the conservatory and prepared to paint.

Jane woke an hour later full of apologies and thanks.

‘I’ll go home and change now,’ she said. ‘You were right – I couldn’t have made it earlier. Then I’ll go back to the hospital.’

‘Don’t forget to let me know what’s happening,’ said Libby, standing in the doorway once more.

‘I won’t.’ Jane got into her car and waving, began reversing slowly down Allhallow’s Lane.

Libby went back to her painting for another hour, then reproving herself for alcoholic tendencies, washed her brushes and set off to The Pink Geranium for a drink with Harry.

‘Ben and Pete are coming in,’ he told her, polishing glasses on his apron. ‘Lunch trade was pretty non-existent, so I sent Donna off. She’s off tonight anyway, so she might as well have a nice long afternoon.’

Libby sat down at the table in the window and reached behind her to pull down the blind.

‘Is this a council of war, or just a warn Libby to stop ferreting party?’ she asked.

‘Just a get-together.’ Harry brought a bottle of wine and the glasses over to the table. ‘The old gang. Also, I think there’s something Pete wants to talk to us about.’

‘That sounds alarming,’ said Libby, accepting her wine.

When Peter arrived, Libby was surprised to see him followed closely by Lenny, Hetty’s brother, and his partner Flo Carpenter, with Ben bringing up the rear.

‘Me, it was actually,’ said Lenny, when they were all settled round the table, and Peter had supplemented the wine with some from his own stock. ‘My idea.’ He looked proudly round the table.

‘What was?’ asked Libby, when nothing else seemed forthcoming.

‘The party.’ He raised a triumphant glass. ‘For Het.’

Ben smiled. ‘Birthday party.’

‘Blimey,’ said Harry.

‘Golly,’ said Libby.

‘She’ll kick up,’ said Peter.

Ben nodded. ‘That’s why Lenny’s going to do it,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Libby. ‘Won’t she like it?’

‘You know my mum,’ said Ben. ‘Don’t hold with no fuss.’

‘But she always does the tenants’ party,’ said Libby, ‘and she loves having loads of us to entertain.’

‘That’s different, gal,’ said Flo. ‘It’s not for her, is it. She feeds us all, looks after old Greg, loves it. Not when it’s her, though.’

‘So how did this come about?’ asked Harry, tipping back on his chair until Peter told him off.

‘I arst Len what we was doin’, and he arst Ben,’ said Flo.

‘And he says she don’t want no party. So I says, that’s what she thinks.’ He beamed round the table. ‘And I says to young Pete, what about the theatre? Then we could do it for a surprise, like.’

‘And I says yes,’ said Peter, ‘but I still say she’ll kick up.’

‘No, she won’t,’ said Ben. ‘She’ll be thrilled to bits. Nobody ever does anything for my mum, and she’s had a lot to put up with over the last eighteen months.’

Everyone looked solemn and sipped their drinks in silence.

‘So when is it?’ asked Libby, after a decent interval.

‘Saturday week,’ said Ben. ‘Not much notice, I know, but Lenny’s only just thought of it. I asked mum ages ago, and she said I could take her and Greg to the pub for a meal.’

‘Not The Pink Geranium?’ said Libby, laughing. ‘How dare she!’

‘Doesn’t like veggie food,’ said Harry.

‘Bet you’re doing the food, though,’ grinned Libby.

‘If I’m arst,’ he said, looking down his nose.

‘I thought,’ said Peter, ‘we could do up the stage like a marquee.’

‘What, with chairs and tables?’ Libby was alarmed. ‘There won’t be much room.’

‘A couple of tables with a few chairs and a long table at the back with the food and booze. People can go and sit in the auditorium.’

‘We’ll get food all over the seats.’ Libby wrinkled her nose.

‘Don’t be a kill joy,’ said Peter. ‘If we don’t mind, why should you?’

‘Oh, OK.’ Libby finished her wine. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Think of some entertainment,’ said Flo. ‘You know, songs, an’ that.’

‘Ooo!’ A smile spread across Libby’s face. ‘Yes!’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Harry.

‘Shut up.’ Libby gave him a poke. ‘A piano. That’s what we need. Well, we’ve got a piano, haven’t we? What we need is a pianist.’

‘Piano?’ Puzzled looks were exchanged, but Flo and Lenny looked delighted.

‘That’s it, gel,’ said Lenny. ‘You ’it the nail on the ’ead!’

‘A joanna! A pianna player,’ said Libby. ‘Real pub piano, with all the old songs.’

‘War-time songs,’ said Flo, ‘like we used to sing down hoppin.’

‘We could do a proper set, too,’ said Libby, warming to her theme. ‘An old pub.’

‘Brilliant.’ Ben slapped her on the back and made her splutter. ‘Fantastic idea. I could get on to the brewers –’

‘I’ll download lyrics,’ said Peter. ‘We can have song sheets for those who are too young to remember.’

‘’Ave you got that old hoppers’ hut you had for that play?’ asked Lenny.

‘No, that’s all broken up, now,’ said Ben, ‘and anyway, I don’t think Mum would be too pleased with that, one way and another.’

Lenny looked crestfallen. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Spose yer right.’

‘We’ll stick with the pub,’ said Peter. ‘Now, Lib, all you’ve got to do is find your proper pianna player.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby.

Chapter Seventeen

LIFE FOR BOTH LIBBY and Fran slipped slowly back into routine. Libby called everybody in her phone book trying to locate a suitable pianist and came up with no one. By the end of the week, she was panicking.

They had both visited Jane a couple of times to keep her spirits up, as Terry was still in hospital. Libby was smug about her role in bringing them together, but Fran pointed out that living in the same house they probably would have done anyway.

‘What, like you and Guy?’ scoffed Libby. ‘I know you said you would have got the cottage regardless of me and therefore met Guy, but you didn’t even know it was there, did you?’

‘I’d have worked it out,’ said Fran, looking grumpy. ‘And you don’t know that Terry and Jane have got it together, do you?’

‘Well, look at how this has affected her. I’d say it was a safe bet.’ Libby grinned and jabbed Fran in the shoulder. ‘I’m going to set up as a dating agency. Just call me Dolly.’

Saturday morning saw a meeting at the theatre to discuss progress on the party so far. The “pub” set was coming on nicely under the aegis of Ben, with considerable input from Lenny and Flo, Harry had decided on bangers and mash as being appropriate food, with a quantity of vegetarian sausages for those who wanted them.

‘Then it isn’t too complicated,’ he told Libby.

‘We can’t have authentic deserts as what there were during the war and just after were horrible, so it’s jelly and ice cream as a suitably nostalgic substitute, and a big birthday cake.’

‘So what about the pianist?’ asked Peter, as they all admired the piano decked in red white and blue bunting.

‘I can’t find one,’ muttered Libby.

‘Oh, hell,’ said Ben.

‘If anyone takes up the piano these days it’s classical or Elton John,’ Libby said. ‘No one knows the old stuff. Why would they?’

‘But they could read the music, surely?’ said Peter.

‘I’m not sure I could afford to download about a hundred songs,’ said Libby, ‘and there would be bound to be at least a dozen you’d forget.’

‘I thought you could download songs free from the internet?’ said Harry.

‘Lyrics, yes, but not music.’ Ben sat down on one of the benches. ‘I don’t know why, but I thought it would be easy.’

‘I wonder if any of the other drama societies could come up with a pianist? They’d be the best bet,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.’

‘Have you got any contacts with other societies?’ asked Peter.

‘I can try,’ said Libby, ‘but it will have to wait until I get home and get my phone book.’

But the next call on her mobile put pianists right out of Libby’s head.

‘It’s Jane,’ said a breathless voice as Libby was walking back down The Manor Drive.

‘Hello, Jane,’ said Libby. ‘How’s Terry?’

‘Well, that’s the thing, Libby. He’s coming home.’

‘Blimey, that was quick,’ said Libby. ‘I thought head injuries were kept in for much longer than that.’

‘I don’t know about that, I wasn’t told everything. His parents came down and the doctors talked to them.’

‘Were they nice?’

‘The parents?’ Jane hesitated. ‘Oh, yes. Very grateful, you know.’

‘So did you want to ask me something?’

‘Well, yes. This is a bit awkward.’

Libby stopped walking and waited. ‘Well, go on, then,’ she said. ‘What’s awkward and what do you want me to do?’

‘I wondered if you were doing anything later on this afternoon?’

‘Nothing I can’t put off,’ said Libby.

‘Only, you see, Terry’s coming home in an ambulance, and I said I’d be there to, er, look after him.’

‘Yes?’ prompted Libby. ‘Why do you need me?’

‘Because of Mike.’

‘Mike?’

‘Charteris. My new tenant.’

‘Oh?’ Libby’s ears pricked up.

‘You see, he’s been coming up to see me all week and he said he’d help me with Terry today.’

‘Ah.’ Libby smiled to herself. ‘I see. So you want me to come along so you can say, no thanks I’ve already got help?’

‘Exactly.’ Libby heard Jane’s sigh of relief. ‘You seemed the right person to ask.’

‘OK.’ Libby made a fast decision. ‘What time do you want me?’

‘Whenever you can come. I don’t know what time Terry will get here.’

Interpreting this to mean “come as soon as you can”, Libby said, ‘When I’ve had some lunch I’ll be on my way.’

She called Ben as she continued her walk home, telling him she would be back that evening as soon as she could. As they had no plans to do anything other than watch television and perhaps pop out to the pub for last orders, this wasn’t a problem.

Ali at the eight-til-late had started making fresh sandwiches, and Libby called in on her way past to pick up a ham and mustard on brown. When she’d eaten this, washed down with a glass of water, she cleaned her teeth, dragged a brush through her hair and left the cottage.

On the way to Nethergate, she pondered the situation. Fran, who had seen Mike Charteris, reported that he was slightly older than Terry, but good-looking nonetheless. A good-looking, single (presumably) man exhibiting concern for his young attractive landlady was not notably peculiar, but if the landlady had already fallen for one of her other tenants who was temporarily incapacitated, it would undoubtedly be unwelcome, unless, of course, the landlady had femme fatale leanings. Which, obviously, Jane didn’t.

It being Saturday in high season, Libby eventually had to park in the car park at the end of The Tops rather than in the street outside Jane’s house. By the time she rang the door bell, she was hot and sticky.

‘Lead me to a glass of water,’ she said as Jane opened the door.

‘Sorry, Libby.’ Jane shut the door. ‘Did you have to park miles away?’

‘Far enough,’ said Libby. ‘Now I just want to get to the top of these stairs and sit down.’

‘It’s really kind of you,’ said Jane, after she’d supplied the required glass of water. ‘Only Mike kept coming up to see if I was all right, or if I’d heard any more from the hospital, and – oh, I don’t know – it made me a bit uncomfortable.’

‘And he wanted to be here to help today.’

‘Yes.’ Jane nodded. ‘I know he’s only trying to be helpful, but I don’t know him, and –’ she broke off.

‘And?’ prompted Libby, after a moment.

‘I can’t explain it.’ Jane looked down at her hands. ‘He seemed to keep trying to get into the flat. It frightened me a bit.’

Libby suppressed a smile. ‘You are an attractive young woman, Jane.’

Colour crept up Jane’s neck. ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘but it didn’t quite seem like that, if you know what I mean.’

‘Do you mean he was threatening?’

‘No.’ Jane shook her head. ‘I can’t put my finger on it. Perhaps I’m just not very good with men.’

‘Except Terry,’ said Libby naughtily.

‘Well, I’ve known him a lot longer,’ said Jane, her colour now rising to her hairline.

‘But only just got to know him properly,’ said Libby.

‘Yes.’ Jane looked up. ‘Thanks to you, actually, Libby.’

One in the eye for Fran, thought Libby triumphantly.

‘Oh, I’m sure you would have – um – got together eventually,’ she said aloud.

‘Well, I’m really glad you asked him to come up and help. Not,’ she added hastily, ‘that things have gone very far, but we’ve had a couple of meals and been out for a drink.’ She smiled. ‘It’s been lovely.’

‘And then this has to happen,’ said Libby.

Jane’s face fell. ‘I know. And I still can’t understand it.’

‘Did you ever find out whether they took his wallet?’

‘Oh, yes, apparently, and his cash and keys. That’s why I had to leave the police my pass key that first night.’

‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘And no witnesses?’

‘No. Mike didn’t see anybody as he came along the road, but it must have only just happened, because Mrs Finch had brought her bin round to the front door only minutes before.’

‘Oh, of course, Tuesday was collection day. So this bloke took a real chance, then?’

‘No more than normal, I suppose.’ Jane shrugged. ‘The muggings I report on could have been seen by any number of people. They’re just chancers.’

‘And Terry was just coming in, too, you thought, because all his lights were off.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it’s odd that Mrs Finch didn’t see him, too.’

‘If she didn’t see the mugger, why would she have seen Terry?’

‘True. But the other funny thing is, if Mike was walking home, presumably from the direction of the town, why didn’t he see them ahead of him?’

‘The mugger must have gone, and he wouldn’t have seen Terry until he got right up to the steps, would he?’

‘No.’ Libby shook her head regretfully.

‘What are you getting at, Libby?’

‘Nothing.’ Libby stood up and went to look out of the window, just as Jane’s front door bell rang.

‘Is it the ambulance?’ Jane sprang up from her chair.

‘No, I can’t see who it is,’ said Libby craning her neck.

‘Oh, God, it’ll be Mike again.’ Jane’s shoulders drooped.

‘I’ll go,’ said Libby briskly and started out of the door before Jane could stop her, hoping it was Mike, and not some perfectly innocent visitor.

Just outside the door of Jane’s flat, stood a good-looking man with greying dark hair.

‘Oh!’ he said, looking surprised.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Libby with a quizzical look. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I just came to ask if Jane was all right. I believe Terry’s coming home today. I’m one of the tenants.’

His voice was deep, with a hint of a London accent.

‘Yes, she’s fine, thank you,’ said Libby. ‘I’m here to help with Terry. But thank you for offering.’

‘Are you Jane’s mother?’ He peered at her.

Libby suppressed indignation and simply smiled. ‘No, I’m a friend,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’ And, still smiling, she gently closed the door.

‘Thanks, Libby,’ said Jane, when Libby returned to the sitting room. ‘Did he seem angry?’

‘Angry?’ Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘No. Why on earth should he have been?’

‘I don’t know.’ Jane shook her head again. ‘That’s part of the feeling I always get. That he’s angry that I don’t let him in.’

‘Just a determined suitor,’ said Libby, although she privately wondered if Jane would be safe alone after she’d gone. Silly, she apostrophized herself. Jane had been alone here all week, except for Mrs Finch in the basement. ‘What else do you know about him? The agents checked his references, didn’t they?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s staying down here doing some sort of contract work. He has a flat in London, but didn’t want to commute. He’ll only be here for a few weeks, but I thought, you know –’

‘A bird in the hand,’ Libby finished for her.

‘Exactly. And the agents are trying to find me a permanent tenant. Unless –’ she broke off again.

‘Unless what?’

‘I sell the house.’

Libby was surprised. She hadn’t expected that.

‘Why would you want to sell it?’

‘If things don’t work out for me in Nethergate I’d be silly to stay here. I wouldn’t get much for the house with sitting tenants, but it would be enough for a reasonable deposit for a flat back in London.’

‘When you say, work out for you in Nethergate, what do you mean?’

‘Well,’ said Jane, ‘as I told you, I haven’t exactly made many friends here, have I? And the job really hasn’t got any prospects of promotion. So if things stay as they are, there isn’t much to keep me.’

‘What about Terry?’

Jane’s colour returned in a rush. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

As Libby heard a vehicle drawing up outside, Jane was saved the embarrassment of continuing the conversation. The door bell rang, and the next twenty minutes were taken up with getting Terry into his flat, after which Libby tactfully left while Jane fussed around him, and once more managed to divert Mike Charteris from his obvious intention to help.

Chapter Eighteen

TERRY WAS PERSUADED TO eat the fish and chips Libby fetched for them all, and perked up enough for her to feel comfortable about asking a few questions.

‘I don’t know much,’ he said, prodding a chip into a puddle of tomato sauce.

‘You didn’t see anyone, obviously?’

‘I don’t know.’ He frowned underneath the bandages. ‘I can’t remember anything except walking up the road towards the house. The doc said that was normal.’

‘Handy for the attacker. Wonder if he knew that.’

‘Knew that Terry wouldn’t remember?’ Jane looked startled.

‘Well, even I knew about post-traumatic amnesia,’ said Libby.

‘Really?’

‘I think this kind is called retrograde,’ explained Libby. ‘And if Terry remembers walking up the road, it isn’t too bad. It means he can remember events only a few minutes before the attack. Isn’t that right, Terry?’

Terry started to nod, and winced. ‘Yeah. I saw the other kind in the army. Nasty.’

‘The other kind?’ Jane turned towards him.

‘Don’t remember anything after the attack. You get guys doing all sorts of things they wouldn’t do normally. We had one who took all his clothes off and kept calling for his mum. He didn’t know anything about it afterwards. But he couldn’t work,

either.’

Jane looked appalled. ‘I never knew.’

‘Most people don’t know that bit,’ said Libby, ‘but a lot of people know about the ordinary sort, where you lose the memory of what actually happened.’

‘What’s your point, exactly?’

‘Well, whoever did it, could rely on Terry not being able to give evidence about it.’

‘But I should remember eventually,’ said Terry. ‘The doc said.’

‘When it’s too late, though,’ said Libby. ‘What have the police said?’

‘That’s a bit odd, actually.’ Terry tried to push himself up against the pillows and Jane rushed to help. ‘This flat was searched.’

‘I know,’ said Jane. ‘I gave them my key.’

‘Not by the police,’ said Terry.

‘You mean -?’ Jane was shocked.

‘They’d already used your keys before Mike came along, then.’ Libby nodded to herself. ‘But what about Mrs Finch? She’d only just been out with her bin, Jane tells me, and you weren’t on the steps then.’

‘I don’t know.’ Terry’s face was losing colour. ‘But someone searched my flat.’

‘Was anything taken?’

‘Don’t know.’ Terry closed his eyes and Jane frowned at Libby.

‘OK.’ Libby stood up. ‘Can I do anything else for you, Jane? If not, I’ll be off home before it gets dark.’

Jane smiled in relief. ‘No, nothing, thanks, Libby. It was so good of you to come.’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ said Terry, briefly opening his eyes.

‘There’s something odd about this,’ said Libby quietly, as Jane saw her to the front door.

Jane nodded. ‘I know. I’ll see if he knows anything else in the morning. He needs to rest now.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘Um – you’re suspicious of Mike, aren’t you?’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be, but it all strikes me as a bit odd and coincidental,’ said Libby. ‘Although I can’t for the life of me think why Mike should steal from Terry, or what he might want to find in his flat.’

‘But you think he took the flat deliberately?’

‘Well, maybe. But that would mean he knew Terry already, and that he lived here. If so, why hadn’t he tried to burgle him before?’

Jane looked up quickly. ‘There was a burglary before,’ she said.

‘Really? When?’

‘Ages ago. Before I moved in here. I should have said attempted burglary, because no one actually got in. The front door had been jemmied, but that was it. The police thought whoever it was had been disturbed.’

‘So only Mrs Finch and Terry were here, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it looks as though it’s Terry they’re after?’

‘They?’

‘Whoever it is, then,’ said Libby impatiently. ‘Have you told the police about this?’

Jane shrugged her shoulders and spread her hands. ‘Tell them what? This is pure speculation, Libby.’ She looked uncomfortable as she said this, and Libby realised belatedly that she was doing it again. Pushing her nose in where it wasn’t wanted and putting two and two together and making a hundred and five.

‘Yes, you’re right.’ She sighed. ‘It’s the amateur detective in me. I can’t seem to stop.’

‘If I had my newspaper hat on, I’d be after that story like a jack-rabbit,’ said Jane, with a little laugh, ‘but in real life, I’d have to say it looks like complete fantasy.’

‘And it’s how rumours start,’ agreed Libby, nodding. ‘Say that to anybody else, and it turns into Chinese whispers, and the next thing you know is poor Mike being hounded out of town.’

‘Exactly.’ Jane leaned forward and gave Libby an unexpected kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks so much for coming. I promise I’ll ask Terry if he knows anything else in the morning and let you know.’

‘If you’re sure,’ said Libby. ‘And now I’d better go.’

She walked back up to the car park, now almost empty in the gathering twilight, and looked out over Nethergate bay. From here, she could see The Alexandria just below and to her left, then further down The Swan on the town square, then Harbour Street, and The Sloop overlooking the harbour itself. To her right, where the open fields of the Tops used to be, the edge of the new estate and the beginning of Canongate Drive, where Ben’s friend old Jim lived.

Libby peered down at the people strolling along the promenade and Harbour Street, lit by the fairy lights, and wondered if Guy and Fran were down there. She had a sudden desire for normality and safety, turned hurriedly and got into the car.

‘What’s the name of Jane’s house?’ Fran asked

Libby over the phone on Sunday morning.

‘The name? Has it got one?’

‘It’s only a short terrace, and each one has a name on the stone lintel above the door. Didn’t you notice?’

‘No, can’t say I did. Why do you want to know?’

‘If I said I wanted to send flowers you wouldn’t believe me, would you?’

‘No,’ said Libby baldly.

‘I thought not,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘I wanted to look it up on the internet, that’s all.’

‘Why?’

‘To find out why I’ve got this feeling about it.’

‘Perhaps you were doing what’s-it-called, precognition? About Terry’s accident?’

‘No. I’d have seen it, wouldn’t I? Or felt something about him, rather than the house.’

‘Right,’ said Libby, grudgingly. ‘So you’re going to investigate this, rather than our body?’

Fran sighed again. ‘No, Libby. I just want to know if the house has a history, that’s all. But if you don’t know, I’ll take a walk up there and see what the name is myself.’

‘Will you see Jane?’

‘No, I don’t think so. She’ll have her hands full with Terry, won’t she? How was he?’

Libby told her what had happened the previous day, reluctantly including her own suspicions, and eventual retractions. Fran laughed.

‘You’re learning,’ she said.

Switching off the phone, Libby looked thoughtfully at her own computer. If Fran was going to do it, so could she.

She was checking emails before searching for any reference to Cliff Terrace when her phone rang again.

‘Libby, it’s Jane.’

‘Hello,’ said Libby, surprised that after yesterday Jane would have called, despite her promise. ‘How’s Terry?’

‘Much better,’ said Jane, and Libby wondered if she was blushing. ‘Mind you, he was awake at six. Hospital conditioning.’ She gave a little laugh.

‘Good job you stayed down there, then,’ said Libby.

‘Er, yes.’ Jane cleared her throat and Libby grinned. ‘What I wanted to tell you, though, was that one of the policemen came round earlier. Terry asked if I could stay while they talked, and afterwards I told Terry I wanted to tell you. He didn’t mind.’

‘Oh, right.’ Now Libby was even more surprised.

‘Apparently, it turns out that they think Terry was mugged much earlier than when Mike found him.’

‘How could that be?’ asked Libby. ‘Why didn’t Mrs Finch see him?’

‘They seem to think he was in the hall. They found traces of blood. Then he was dumped outside on the steps.’

‘And his flat was searched while he was unconscious in the hall?’

‘Yes.’

‘So do they think he was dragged outside to make it look like a random mugging?’ said Libby.

‘Yes, that’s it exactly, but listen, that’s not all.’ Jane paused and Libby bit her lip in frustration.

‘Well, what?’ she said.

‘It was searched again this week!’

‘What?’

‘I know. Unbelievable, or what? It must have happened when everyone except Mrs Finch was out. Well, obviously Terry was, but when Mike and I were at work, or maybe when I was at the hospital and Mike was out. I know he goes to The Swan to eat most evenings. That’s where he’d been on Monday night.’

‘So how do they know?’

‘They’d secured the door, they had to come and unlock it yesterday for Terry to come home and that’s when they discovered it.’

‘But discovered what, exactly? Was the room trashed, or what?’

‘No, this detective said that both times you would hardly know anything was wrong, except that the first time a couple of drawers and cupboards had been forced – and window frames, oddly. Then yesterday, obviously their own arrangements had been disturbed and there were other tell-tale signs in the flat.’ Jane sighed. ‘So it looks like you were right, after all.’

‘That someone’s after Terry, you mean?’

‘Yes. That seems to be the way the police are thinking, anyway. But they can’t find out why, and Terry doesn’t know. He hasn’t got a record, he was in the army and had nothing to do with this area until he got his job.’

‘Did you find out why he came here?’

‘I think,’ said Jane slowly, ‘that he came here with a girl.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes. I don’t want to question him about it, though. It’s not my place.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Libby, grinning.

‘Anyway, I thought you’d like to know,’ said Jane. ‘If Terry thinks of anything else, he says I can tell you.’

‘That’s good of him, but why?’

‘He knows all about your other cases. I told him. And he likes you.’

‘Does he?’ Libby found herself smiling. ‘That’s nice.’

‘He said –’ Libby heard Jane take a deep breath ‘– you’d brought us together.’

‘Aaah!’ Wisely, Libby refrained from making a triumphant comment, but saved it up to repeat to Fran. ‘Well, that’s lovely, and now I mustn’t keep you from him.’

‘Oh, it’s OK, he’s sleeping. He’s going to get up when he wakes, and I’m going to do a proper Sunday roast.’ Jane sounded so cheerful, Libby could hardly reconcile her with the rather mousey creature she’d met a couple of weeks earlier.

‘What number Cliff Terrace are you, by the way? I think Fran was thinking of sending flowers? Or has the house got a name?’ Libby privately congratulated herself on this strategy.

‘There’s really no need,’ said Jane, ‘but it’s very nice of her. It’s got both actually, number two and Peel House. Melbourne, Peel, Palmerston and Disraeli, all Victorian prime ministers. They were built while Disraeli was in office I think, or there might have been one more – Gladstone.’

‘Or Salisbury,’ said Libby, ‘and even Russell. He was before Peel, wasn’t he?’

‘Oh, goodness, I don’t know,’ said Jane. ‘Anyway. That’s it. I think there’s even a piece about it in an online magazine about Nethergate.’

After ringing off, Libby could hardly wait to track down the magazine article Jane mentioned. Peel House itself was slightly more difficult, as there seemed to be a plethora of Peel Houses all over the web, but eventually Libby found the Nethergate online magazine, and sure enough, a short article about Cliff Terrace, which had originally been called Victoria Place, apparently. When the town expanded, the promenade, being more important, was renamed Victoria Place, and Cliff Terrace given its new name.

The phone rang again.

‘Found it,’ said Fran.

‘So have I,’ said Libby.

‘What?’

‘I’ve found Peel House on the internet. Jane just called to tell me something about Terry and his accident and told me the name so I looked it up. I’ve got it in front of me.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘Peel House second in a terrace of four named Cliff Terrace.’

‘And?’

‘Well, that’s more or less all,’ said Libby. ‘Why? What have you found?’

‘Peel House was owned by Jessica Maurice –’

‘We know that,’ interrupted Libby, ‘she was Jane’s aunt.’

‘Jessica Maurice,’ continued Fran, ‘the wartime mistress of Fascist sympathiser and Mosley follower Simon Madderling.’

Chapter Nineteen

LIBBY GASPED. ‘GOLLY,’ SHE said.

‘Do you know anything about him?’ asked Fran.

‘No, but I know about Mosley, obviously. Must have been famous, this Simon – what did you say? – Madeleine?’

‘Madderling. Yes, he was. At the time, anyway. I’d heard of him vaguely, but there’s a whole potted history of him on the net. You can look him up yourself.’

‘Hold on,’ said Libby, and typed the name into the search engine with one hand. Sure enough, pages of results came up.

‘If you go to the second site listed, you’ll see,’ said Fran. ‘That’s the one that mentions Jane’s aunt, but it looks as though this wasn’t made public until very recently.’

Libby, scanning the article quickly, said, ‘How did you come up with the connection to the house? I mean, does it say anywhere “Jessica Maurice, owner of Peel House, mistress of etc etc.”?’

‘No. I put in Peel House followed by Jessica Maurice and came up with various hits, but none together. It’s easy enough to follow, though, if you happen to want to know.’

‘And you did?’

‘Well, of course.’ Fran sounded much happier than she had for some time, thought Libby. ‘I knew there was something about that house, and this is it. I would bet that Madderling bought that house for Jessica during the war. I was also sure, and this is actually what I found out about Jessica herself, that she was some sort of government agent. Madderling disappeared in ’43, I think, and was never traced. The popular theories were that he’d been disposed of by the British government or the fascist fraternity.’

‘But I thought the fascists were all imprisoned during the war?’ said Libby.

‘Not all of them. The high flyers, were, of course, like Oswald and Diana Mosley and the members of the Right Club.’

‘The Right Club? What was that?’

‘Hang on – here we are – “The main object of the Right Club was to oppose and expose the activities of Organized Jewry”.’

‘Good God!’ gasped Libby.

‘That’s what Fascism was, basically. Extreme right. Anyway, you know enough about Fascism to know about Cable Street and William Joyce and stuff –’

‘Lord Haw Haw?’

‘Yes. Anyway, it turns out that Madderling was an MI5 agent who infiltrated the Right Club. There were others, Joan Miller for one.’

‘Who she?’

‘A former deb. There were lots of them working for the government in one capacity or other. From what I can piece together, she and Jessica were friends.’

‘So that’s why you think she was an agent, too?’

‘It seems logical, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, it does. Jane doesn’t know any of this, does she?’

‘No, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t,’ said Fran. ‘I told you when I asked her what her aunt did and how did she afford the house, she said she’d never thought about it. She said there’d been some talk in the family about a man during the war, but that was it.’

‘And this man was what’s-his-name?’

‘Simon Madderling.’

‘Well.’ Libby sat back in her chair and drummed her fingers on the table. ‘That’s all very interesting, but why do you think that’s why you had one of your moments about the house?’

‘I’m not quite sure yet, but it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that a house with that sort of history will have some kind of event attached to it?’

‘Ye-es,’ said Libby slowly.

‘Well, it does,’ said Fran firmly.

‘Have an event?’

‘I’m certain of it,’ said Fran, once again sounding so much like her old self that Libby almost cheered.

‘That’s a definite, then,’ said Libby. ‘And does it link with the attack on Terry?’

‘Ah, now that I’m not sure about. It certainly wasn’t the event that drew me to the house, but it doesn’t exactly feel out of kilter.’

‘I’m not sure I understood all that,’ said Libby. ‘Was it a yes or no?’

‘A maybe,’ said Fran.

‘Oh.’

‘Anyway,’ said Fran, ‘what about Terry? You said Jane called this morning?’

Libby recounted the conversation with Jane, adding her own questions to Terry from the previous evening. She also included the positive comments on her matchmaking.

‘Told you so,’ she concluded. ‘Matchmaker extraordinaire, that’s me!’

‘You said there was an attempted burglary before?’ asked Fran, ignoring this.

‘Yes,’ Libby sighed. ‘That’s why I thought – and so do the police, apparently – it must have something to do with Terry.’

‘Hmm,’ said Fran.

‘Hmm what?’

‘I don’t know. Let me work on it.’

‘You’ve obviously been working on it for some time already.’

‘Since yesterday evening,’ said Fran.

‘Wow. But you only asked me about Peel House this morning.’

‘I started researching Jessica last night.’

‘So you got all that stuff about the Right Club then?’

‘Some of it,’ said Fran.

‘Right. Oh, and by the way, in order to obtain the information you didn’t want –’

‘Eh?’

‘The name of Peel House.’

‘Oh,’ said Fran.

‘I told Jane I needed the number of the house because you were thinking of sending flowers.’

‘Oh, right. Well, I can’t do that on a Sunday, can I?’

‘No,’ said Libby, ‘but I can go and get some nice ones from the supermarket and take them round from both of us.’

‘Lib, be careful. Don’t start interrogating Jane about this. Or Terry, come to that.’

‘What do you take me for?’ said Libby indignantly. ‘Of course I won’t.’

‘I know you, don’t forget,’ said Fran. ‘Just wait until I’ve done some more research. Oh, and you don’t happen to know if Jane’s parents are still alive, do you?’

‘No, but if her father had been, surely he would have got Peel House. Jessica treated him like a son, Jane said, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Bother. He would have known more than Jane.’

‘Her mother might, if she’s alive.’

‘Why shouldn’t she be? She’d be our age, wouldn’t she?’

‘Probably. I’ll let you ask Jane about that.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘Will you go today?’

‘I can do. Before lunch, though. Het’s doing us a roast and Lenny and Flo are coming.’

‘That’s twice in a week she’s fed you,’ said Fran. ‘Is she buttering you up?’

‘No, she just likes cooking for people. And I think she gets a bit lonely. Ben’s not there most of the time, and Greg’s not much company these days.’

‘Poor old Greg,’ said Fran. ‘Is there a prognosis?’

‘I don’t know. Ben just says he’s getting frailer.’

‘But still a charmer,’ said Fran.

Libby called Ben to ask what time she should be at The Manor, then got into Romeo the Renault to drive to the supermarket. She didn’t like forsaking Ali at the eight-til-late, but the only flowers he ever had were of the garage forecourt variety. Having purchased a large and impressive bouquet and resisted the lure of the food aisles, she went on to Nethergate and parked on the yellow line outside Coastguard Cottage.

‘I thought you could sign the card,’ she said to a surprised Fran. ‘Or would you like to come with me? I’m not going to be long. I’ve got to be at The Manor by one thirty.’

Guy appeared at Fran’s shoulder. She blushed.

‘Been helping with the research, Guy?’ asked Libby cheerfully.

‘Yes, it’s fascinating, isn’t it? Just shows how little we know about the war years.’ He gave Fran’s arm a squeeze. ‘Why don’t you go with Libby? I’ll book a table at The Swan for us for when you get back.’

‘OK.’ Fran was obviously still hesitant. ‘Let me do the card, anyway.’

They went inside Fran’s living room, where she found a pen and added something to Libby’s message.

‘Come on, then,’ said Libby. ‘Quicker we go, the quicker we’ll get back. And you can keep me in check.’

‘In check?’ queried Guy.

‘Asking too many questions,’ grinned Libby. ‘You know what I’m like.’

Outside Peel House, Fran stared up at the terrace.

‘It’s attractive, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘It is. And a gorgeous position. They aren’t terribly big, though. I wonder who lived in them when they were built?’

‘Merchants, I think. And I expect they became houses families took for the season.’

‘Oh, like Bella’s Shepherd family?’ Libby referred to an investigation the pair of them had become involved with last winter.

‘Exactly. Kitchen in the basement, nursery and servants in the attics.’

‘Well, it’s the attics where Jane lives now, and Terry’s got the first floor. That’s where they’ll be.’

Libby pressed Terry’s bell and Jane’s breathy voice came through the grill.

‘It’s us, Jane,’ said Libby. ‘Bearing flowers.’

Terry was sitting in a chair in his living room looking self conscious.

‘Thanks,’ he mumbled. ‘Nice of you.’

Jane looked at him proudly, like a mother with a precocious toddler. ‘I’ll put them in the kitchen sink until I find a vase,’ she said. ‘Would you two like tea or coffee?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Fran before Libby could accept. ‘We won’t hold you up.’

‘So, did you think of anything else, Terry?’ asked Libby, while Jane took the flowers away.

‘No. Nothing was stolen. Can’t understand it.’

‘Libby said drawers and a cupboard were attacked, is that right?’ asked Fran.

‘Yeah. And a window frame.’ He shook his head and winced. ‘Mad.’

Libby noticed Fran’s face was alight with interest. ‘Do you think it’s the house they were interested, not you?’ she said.

‘The house?’ Jane had come back into the room. ‘Why on earth would it be the house?’

‘I don’t know. I know nothing about it, except that your aunt owned it.’

‘Would your parents know anything about it, Jane?’ asked Fran. ‘You said your father was like a son to Jessica.’

‘My father died years ago,’ said Jane, ‘or he would have got the house. I don’t think mother liked Aunt Jessica very much, although she did her duty by her. It was Mum who organised the home. And it was a very good one.’

That confirms that, thought Libby.

‘Anyway, what’s the house got to do with it?’ asked Jane. ‘It was Terry who was attacked.’

‘Just a thought, as nothing of his was stolen,’ said Fran carelessly. ‘Anyway, glad to see you’re recovering, Terry.’ She stood up. ‘We’ll leave you in peace.’

Libby opened her mouth to protest, but stood up silently on meeting Fran’s steely gaze.

‘Bye Jane,’ she said. ‘Call if you need anything.’

‘So?’ she said to Fran as soon as they were back in Romeo. ‘What was that about?’

‘I’m going to phone Connell,’ said Fran, getting out her mobile. ‘It’s the house. There’s something there.’

‘Connell’s got nothing to do with this case,’ said Libby, starting the car. ‘He’s doing the body on the island, if you’ve forgotten.’

‘I know, but he’ll know who’s handling this case.’

‘Which is probably only down as GBH and burglary, not murder.’

‘GBH is serious enough,’ said Fran, holding the phone to her ear. ‘Now shut up.’

‘Ian’s not on duty at the moment,’ she said, switching off after a short conversation. ‘But they’ll pass on a message.’

‘And what do you expect to happen then?’ asked Libby, drawing up outside Coastguard Cottage. ‘I don’t suppose you’re Ian’s favourite person after letting him down over the body on the island.’

‘I’m sure he understands what I do isn’t an exact science,’ said Fran, unfastening her seat belt.

‘At the beginning of the week you had convinced yourself it wasn’t a science at all,’ said Libby. ‘In fact, it didn’t even exist, if you mean your own particular brand of science.’

‘I know,’ sighed Fran, pausing with her hand on the door handle. ‘But as soon as I realised that this feeling about Peel House was getting stronger and stronger, I had to give in to it.’

‘And now you’ve justified it.’

Fran nodded.

‘So what about that connection you invented about the body being connected to our Transnistrian girl?’

‘I was just looking for connections – anything. It was tenuous, to say the least, wasn’t it?’ She smiled faintly at Libby.

‘I’ll say! But interesting. Pity we couldn’t follow that one up as well.’

‘Lib,’ warned Fran. ‘Don’t go trying to investigate things on your own. It’s nothing to do with us. You’re welcome to help me with the research into Jessica Maurice and Simon Madderling if you really want to.’

‘Of course I want to, it’s fascinating, as Guy said. But you must tell Jane. It wouldn’t be fair to keep her in the dark.’

‘No.’ Fran looked thoughtful. ‘But I’d really like to speak to her mother first. I wonder how I could manage that?’

‘I’ll find out,’ said Libby. ‘I’m good at that sort of thing.’

‘Just don’t get into trouble,’ said Fran opening the car door. ‘You’re good at that, too.’

Chapter Twenty

HOWEVER, IT WASN’T AS easy as Libby had hoped to trace Jane’s mother. Short of asking outright, she couldn’t decide which way to go. She didn’t even know Jane’s birth date, so the Family Records office route was closed to her. When she got back to Allhallow’s Lane after lunch at The Manor, she spent the afternoon on the computer trying to work out how to do it, but decided eventually there was no way it was possible. She phoned Fran.

‘Can’t get Jane’s mother’s name without asking Jane,’ she said. ‘What do you want to do now?’

‘Ask Jane, I suppose. Damn.’

‘You’ll have to tell her why.’

There was a short silence. ‘Is she going back to work tomorrow?’ Fran asked eventually.

‘I expect so. She was only off for one day last week. Terry seems well enough to cope on his own during the day.’

‘It’ll have to be today, then. I’ll ring her.’

‘Do you want me to do it?’

‘No, I will.’ Fran sighed. ‘I’ll ring you back and let you know how I get on.’

‘What’s going on now?’ asked Ben coming in through the kitchen. ‘Are you interfering again?’

‘No, I’m not!’ Libby scowled at him. ‘I tried to find something out for Fran and couldn’t, so she’s going to do it on her own.’

Ben looked dubious. ‘Is this to do with the body?’

‘No. Something entirely different and nothing to do with the police.’

‘What, then? I thought Fran had retired.’

‘So did she, but it appears that her psychic energy, or whatever it is, is still in full working order.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘But not to order, if you see what I mean.’

‘I always thought that was the case,’ said Ben, sitting down on the cane sofa with a creak. ‘We really must get you a better sofa.’

‘When she did stuff for you and Goodall and Smythe it was to order,’ objected Libby.

‘Just wandering round buildings to see if anything came to her. Bit different.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Libby.

‘So what is it that’s got her interested this time?’

‘Jane Maurice’s house,’ said Libby.

‘Ah! See, that’s obviously what she does best. Houses.’

‘But it’s what she’s discovered that’s so interesting,’ Libby went on, coming to sit in the armchair. ‘It turns out Jane’s aunt who left her the house was the mistress of some famous bloke in the war.’

‘Famous bloke?’

‘Fascist sympathiser, but a double agent working for MI5. Simon something.’ Libby wrinkled her brow.

‘Madderling?’ said Ben. ‘Good God, that is high flying.’

‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘Yes, although I don’t know much. I read a lot about the politics of the second world war when I was younger. But it’s only recently it came out that he was a double agent.’

‘Yes, that’s what Fran said. Anyway, she thinks there’s something in the house, and that’s why Terry was attacked.’

‘Lost me.’ Ben shook his head.

‘Terry was attacked and his flat searched, although nothing was taken except his wallet and keys.’

Ben frowned. ‘Why attack Terry? Jane would be the one to attack, surely?’

‘Apparently there was an attempted burglary before Jane moved in. Perhaps whoever it is is trying the flats one by one.’

‘If they do, it’s going to look very suspicious, isn’t it?’

‘Well, that’s Fran’s theory, anyway. She’s phoning Jane to tell her all about her aunt right now.’

‘You mean Jane didn’t know?’ Ben lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Doesn’t seem like it.’ Libby stood up. ‘Tea?’

It wasn’t until the tea was poured that the phone rang.

‘What happened?’ asked Libby.

‘She was – well, she was –’

‘Gobsmacked?’ suggested Libby.

‘You could put it like that! Anyway, she confirmed that she hadn’t known anything about it, and was going straight upstairs to check it all out on the computer.’

‘So what about her mother?’

‘She wants to talk to her herself.’ Fran made an irritated sound. ‘Which I really didn’t want. I don’t

suppose the mother will talk to me after that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, Lib, can you imagine? Jane saying, “well, now you’ve told me all about it there’s this strange psychic woman who wants to talk to you”?’

‘If she’s a sceptic Jane will convince her.’

‘I haven’t given Jane much reason to trust me, have I?’

‘What about your blackout on the Dolphin?’

‘Not much to go on, is it?’

‘Buck up, Fran,’ said Libby. ‘At least Jane might find out a few more facts for you. And then you can tell Ian in the morning.’

‘That’s if her mother tells her anything, and if she does it tonight.’

‘Well, there’s nothing else you can do, now,’ said Libby, ‘so just get on with having a nice Sunday evening and forget all about it.’

‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ said Ben, when she switched off the phone.

‘I shall,’ said Libby. ‘I shall sit on the sofa with you and watch mindless television all evening.’

‘There’s a charity quiz at the pub,’ said Ben.

‘Even better,’ said Libby. ‘Let’s go and win.’

The red light on the answerphone was winking when they returned, having come a respectable third in the quiz. Libby pressed the button.

‘Lib, Jane phoned back and says her mother will talk to us,’ came Fran’s voice.

‘Us!’ said Libby to Ben.

‘So I’ve to ring in the morning to arrange a convenient time. Can you ring first thing and tell me when you’ve got time to go up to London? Bye.’

‘She doesn’t say what Jane told her,’ said Libby, following Ben into the kitchen, where he was collecting whisky and glasses for a nightcap.

‘She’ll tell you in the morning. Don’t worry about it,’ said Ben. ‘You’ve got your wish, you’re on the investigating trail again, so just relax and enjoy it.’

‘Is that your way of telling me I’m a pathetic, obsessive nerd?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Ben.

‘You haven’t yet told me what Jane said about her mother,’ said Libby, as Fran turned what Guy called her roller-skate onto the Canterbury Road the following morning.

‘I haven’t had time, have I?’ Fran changed into fifth gear and settled back. ‘It isn’t much.’

‘Well, what did she say when you told her about Jessica?’

‘She was angry at first. She started telling me off for prying into her business, until I said it was all available on the internet and I’d come across it accidentally because I was interested in the house.’

‘Which was true,’ said Libby.

‘In a way, yes, it was. So then she calmed down and asked me about it. You remember she said her mother didn’t like Jessica? Well, she said she first thought that when she was a child and heard this vague mention of a man. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? It was dreadful in those days to live in sin, and especially if the man was known to be a spy.’

‘But he wasn’t known as a spy, then,’ objected Libby. ‘He was only known as a Fascist sympathiser, and follower of Mosley.’

‘Well, even worse,’ said Fran. ‘I expect most ordinary people thought any Fascist sympathisers were spies.’

‘We can put her mind at rest about that, anyway,’ said Libby. ‘He was a spy, but on our side.’ She looked out of the side window. ‘I wonder what happened to him?’

It was lunchtime by the time they hit London and Fran made her way along the Embankment towards Battersea.

‘Where is it?’ asked Libby.

‘Somewhere between Battersea Park and Wandsworth Road,’ said Fran. ‘Not my side of the river.’

‘It is mine, but I don’t think I could find my way round there any more. Wandsworth and Wimbledon, possibly, but not this bit. And even if I could, they’ll have turned all the roads one way and shut them off, won’t they?’

‘True. Anyway, you’ve got the road map I printed off, so once we get across the bridge you can direct me.’

Libby glowered at her, but took the maps and tried to figure out where they were. Across the bridge, and Battersea Park looked familiar, but that was about all. However, they eventually found 31 Jubilee Road, one of the Edwardian terraced houses that proliferate all across London, where Jane’s mother lived in the downstairs flat. After finding a parking space several streets away, by the time they rang the doorbell they were nearly fifteen minutes late.

‘Mrs Maurice?’ said Fran, as the door opened. ‘I’m so sorry we’re late. We couldn’t find a parking space.’

The woman gave a very small smile. Libby could see traces of Jane in her face, but it was stronger and less good-humoured. Flawless make-up could not disguise the crêpey lines, and the rigidly set hair could not completely cover the glimpses of pink scalp beneath. Only a few years older than Libby and Fran, she seemed like a completely different generation.

‘I understand you want to talk about my husband’s Aunt Jessica,’ she said, after ushering them into a sitting room at the back of the house, whose tall French windows opened onto the garden, as rigidly arranged as Mrs Maurice herself.

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Fran. Libby was wondering why this woman had even allowed a phone call about Jessica, let alone a whole interview. The answer soon became clear.

‘First you must tell me why, and how you much you already know,’ said Mrs Maurice.

Fran took a deep breath and glanced at Libby.

‘I’m sure Jane has told you about the attack on one of her tenants?’ she began.

‘No,’ said Mrs Maurice, looking surprised. Libby wasn’t.

‘He was attacked last week, and it appears that the attacker wanted to search the house. There had been an attempt over a year ago, before Jane moved in, as well.’

Mrs Maurice said nothing, but gave a slight nod.

‘Mrs Sarjeant and I researched Peel House on the internet to see if there was any reason that the house could be important, or hold some sort of secret. That was when we came across the fact that it was owned by Jessica Maurice and had, in fact –’ and here Libby saw a slight involuntary movement of Fran’s hands ‘– been bought for her by her lover Simon Madderling.’

Mrs Maurice’s face had tightened into even more of a mask than it had been before. Scored a hit, there, Fran, thought Libby.

‘Then there is very little else I can tell you.’ The woman fixed her eyes on a point above Fran’s head. ‘Jessica Maurice worked for some sort of civil service branch in London during the war as many women did. She met this man who apparently worked for the same service but who was a follower of Mosley.’ She spat the name out of her mouth like a bad taste. ‘I believe she lived with him in London until he bought the house in Nethergate.’

Result! thought Libby.

‘But did you know,’ Fran said, ‘that Simon was a British spy?’

‘Even worse,’ said Mrs Maurice. ‘He betrayed his country doubly, then.’

‘No, not at all,’ said Fran hurriedly. ‘He was posing as a Fascist to infiltrate the organisations.’ She glanced briefly at Libby for support. ‘Did you ever know a friend of Jessica’s called Joan Miller?’

‘I wasn’t even born then,’ said Mrs Maurice. ‘How would I have known any friends of Jessica’s? And where did you get that nonsense about that man?’

‘It was published a few years ago,’ said Fran. ‘You must remember when the 50 year rule came to an end? When all the wartime documents were released?’

Mrs Maurice shook her head. Fran sighed and glanced again at Libby.

‘So you never knew or met Simon Madderling or Joan Miller?’ said Libby.

‘Of course not. I wasn’t born until the end of the war.’

‘Oh?’ said Libby.

Faint colour crept up Mrs Maurice’s unlovely neck. ‘1942, actually, if you must know. But I was far too young to know anything of this. I didn’t meet Jessica until after I met my husband.’

‘Of course,’ said Fran. ‘Did he tell you anything about his aunt?’

‘I heard all about her from his mother,’ said Mrs Maurice. ‘He always supported her. Jessica Maurice, that is.’

‘Yes, we heard she treated him like a son,’ said Libby innocently. Mrs Maurice’s lips clamped together and her colour flared.

‘So there is, in fact, nothing you can tell us,’ Fran put in hastily. ‘Nothing we don’t already know.’

‘You don’t think you know. She was no better than she should be, that woman. A bad influence on my husband and my daughter. I warned Jane about going to live there. That house was bought from immoral earnings.’ Mrs Maurice’s voice had risen considerably, and noticing a blob of spittle at the corner of her mouth, Libby was uncomfortably reminded of Peter’s mad mother Millie.

‘It was good of you to see us,’ said Fran, rising quickly.

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Maurice,’ said Libby, following her example. ‘We’ll say hello to Jane for you.’

They made their way silently through the hall, across the blue and green floral carpet, past the gold painted ironwork mirror and hall table and through the reeded-glass inner door. Jane’s mother closed it firmly behind them without another word.

‘Whew!’ said Libby as soon as they reached the pavement. ‘No wonder Jane wants to live in Nethergate.’

‘I wonder why she didn’t warn us,’ said Fran, looking up at the house. ‘She must have known what would happen.’

‘Perhaps she thought she would open up to us,’ said Libby, gesturing with her head towards the flick of a net curtain in the bay window. Fran nodded and turned to walk away.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I think it was to punish us for finding out facts she thought supported her mother’s dislike of her aunt.’

‘Eh?’ Libby turned a puzzled gaze on her friend.

‘We found out about her having a wartime lover who was supposed to be an enemy of the state. Jane’s mother had always disapproved of Aunt Jessica, and this may have seemed to Jane to explain it. Then she probably felt guilty for blaming her mother for her dislike of Aunt Jessica.’

‘Oh, I see! Thinking it must have been justified, you mean?’

‘Exactly. And the thing is, until those documents were published, in her own lights she probably was justified.’

Libby shook her head. ‘I can’t believe her attitude, though, can you? I mean, she’s only a few years older than we are –’

‘Ten,’ said Fran.

‘All right, ten years older than we are, but she’s only in her sixties. She sounds as though she’s still in the fifties.’

‘Nineteen fifties?’

‘Of course nineteen fifties! Immoral earnings indeed!’

‘Yes, but Libby, until comparatively recently, people thought Madderling was a fascist spy.’

‘It doesn’t excuse her completely out-dated attitudes, I’m sorry.’ Libby trudged along with a mulish expression on her face.

No.’ Fran glanced at her friend with amusement.

‘So what did we learn? Precisely nothing. Waste of time and petrol.’ Libby exhaled gustily.

‘We had our suspicions confirmed. Simon did buy the house for Jessica.’

‘That’s about all, though.’ Libby frowned, deep in thought. ‘I reckon we ought to find out more about this Joan Miller.’

‘I think we’re in danger of digging too deep,’ said Fran.

‘What?’ Libby stopped and turned to her friend. ‘You were the one who had a thing about the house. You were the one who thought Terry’s attack was the result of something hidden there.’

‘I know, but I really don’t think we’re looking for something that’s of national importance, and going into Joan Miller’s life takes it into that sort of realm.’

‘Was she that important?’

‘Even I’d heard of Joan Miller,’ said Fran. ‘She left MI5 to get married before the end of the war. She wrote a book about it all. I think the powers that be tried to get it suppressed. I don’t know how true it was.’

‘Oh.’ Libby began walking again. ‘I suppose it does seem a bit far-fetched. But you were certain yesterday.’

‘I know,’ sighed Fran, ‘but now it looks a bit pathetic. Am I trying to justify myself?’

‘Oh, don’t start that again,’ said Libby, ‘if only for my sake. Let’s go home, go and tell Jane what her ma said, and then go and have a nice soothing drink at The Sloop or The Swan. Ben can come down and pick me up.’

‘All right,’ said Fran. ‘And Peel House can keep its secrets.’

‘Whatever happens,’ said Libby darkly.

Chapter Twenty-one

SETTLED AT A TABLE in The Sloop overlooking the harbour, Libby ordered drinks while Fran talked to Jane on her mobile.

‘She’s coming down to join us.’ Fran sat down at the table and put the phone back in her bag.

‘What did she say about her mum?’

‘Nothing. I just said we were back, she asked where we were and she said she’d come down. I don’t know whether she was at work or at home.’

While they were waiting for Jane to arrive, Libby phoned Ben and asked him if he could come and fetch her from Nethergate.

‘Not too popular,’ Libby said to Fran. ‘He was busy doing something mechanical on the estate. I shall just have to wait until he’s ready.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Fran. ‘You can come back and wait with me.’ She turned her head. ‘Here’s Jane.’

‘Hi,’ said Libby. ‘You look bushed.’

Jane coloured faintly, in a much more attractive way than her mother. ‘I had to get up early to make sure Terry had everything before I went to work,’ she said. ‘I hope he’s fully appreciative,’ said Fran, as Libby got up to get a drink for Jane.

‘Oh, he doesn’t think I should be looking after him,’ said Jane with a little laugh. ‘I think he thinks it’s unmanly.’

‘From what I’ve seen of Terry that sounds very likely,’ said Libby, coming back to the table. ‘But I bet he likes it really. Have his parents gone home?’

‘Oh, yes. As soon as they saw he was all right, they went back. His mother’s coming down on Wednesday, I think, just to see how he is.’

‘Good. Now,’ said Fran, pulling her chair forward, ‘tell us why you didn’t warn us about your mother.’

Jane looked down into her glass. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

‘Your mother,’ said Libby, ‘is a living breathing miracle. Transported from the last century.’

Jane looked up and opened her mouth. Fran stepped in.

‘Century before last, Lib,’ she said, defusing the situation. ‘What Libby means is, your mother seems to have the same morality as her mother’s generation. She hasn’t moved with the times.’

Jane subsided. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I always wonder if it’s just me, but then I meet other people’s parents.’ She looked up. ‘And you two. You’re nearly the same age as my mother, aren’t you?’

‘About ten years difference,’ said Libby, ‘but, yes, nearer her age than we are yours.’

‘She’s always been like it. Drove my dad and me mad. And my grandmother was just the same. It was almost as though she was my mother’s mother, not my father’s.’

‘What was your grandfather like? Jessica’s brother?’ asked Libby, leaning her elbows on the table.

‘Quite jolly. I don’t remember him very well, but I would think Dad was more like him. Aunt Jess was the same. My mother was scandalised when she opened the house as a B&B, but that was Aunt Jess. Independent. Wouldn’t be beholden to anybody.’

‘Well, your mum confirmed that Simon Madderling bought the house for Aunt Jessica during the war, obviously before he disappeared, and that she thought he was a fascist spy.’

‘And you say he wasn’t,’ said Jane slowly.

‘That’s what the official documents said when they were released,’ said Fran.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You know?’ Libby raided an eyebrow.

‘I looked him up, of course. I can’t believe I didn’t know any of this.’ Jane shook her head.

‘I don’t suppose your father would have told you, and your mother certainly wouldn’t. The only person who might have done would have been Jessica herself, and I expect she thought it was best to let the past stay buried,’ said Fran.

‘I talked it over with Terry last night,’ said Jane, ‘and we wondered why, as Jess left the house to me, she didn’t tell me if there was something hidden there. That’s your thinking, isn’t it? That’s why Terry was attacked?’

‘It’s one theory,’ said Libby. ‘Only because we were working on Fran’s – er – insights.’

‘And have you told the police?’ asked Jane.

‘I’ve left a message for my friend Inspector Connell,’ said Fran.

‘He’s not the one in charge of Terry’s investigation, though, is he?’

‘No, but none of the other officers are likely to take anything I say seriously,’ said Fran.

‘What, not even after those other cases you’ve helped with?’ Jane looked surprised.

‘My involvement was blown a bit out of proportion,’ said Fran. ‘Your chap at the Mercury was somewhat intrusive.’

‘That’s Bob, the news editor,’ said Jane. ‘But you did help, didn’t you?’

‘A bit,’ said Fran. ‘So did Libby.’

‘Yes.’ Jane looked at Libby for a moment. ‘So what do you think now?’

‘Not much.’ Fran sighed and shifted in her chair. ‘I think maybe I was getting something from a long way back and just assumed it had something to do with Terry’s attack.’

‘You don’t think there’s any danger of anything else happening?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Fran. ‘I was interfering. Sorry.’

Libby looked at her in astonishment. ‘You were interfering?’

Fran laughed. ‘Yes. Now you can tell me off.’

Jane frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m the nosy interfering one,’ said Libby. ‘Everybody tells me so. Especially Fran.’

‘Oh.’ Jane twirled her glass. ‘Well, I think you’re very good at interfering, and I wish you’d go on doing it.’

Libby and Fran both looked at her and then at each other.

‘What, exactly, do you mean?’ asked Libby.

‘Not so that I can do a piece on you,’ said Jane, looking at Fran, ‘even though I wanted to at first. No, because everything you’ve been doing interests me, and I want to find out more about Aunt Jessica and Peel House. And Simon Madderling, of course. As I said, I googled him this morning and found out quite a bit about him and it even mentions Aunt Jessica on one of the sites.’

‘It was the house that led me to the information,’ said Fran, quoting what she had told Libby the previous day.

‘Yes. Well, there must be more to find out, surely?’ said Jane, looking from one to the other. ‘Couldn’t you look into it?’

Fran looked uncomfortable.

‘She doesn’t really do stuff to order,’ said Libby. ‘That’s why she doesn’t like helping the police. She’s only happy if something comes to her sort of – oh, I don’t know – spontaneously.’

‘But the house did, didn’t it?’ persisted Jane. ‘And there must be more to find out.’

‘I’m sure there is,’ said Fran, ‘but do you really want me to? I mean, our visit to your mother wasn’t very successful, was it? I could just be wasting time.’

‘My mother confirmed what you thought, that Simon bought the house. See,’ said Jane, ‘you knew about it all along, really, didn’t you? You remember that first time you came to the flat you asked about my aunt’s job and how she’d afforded the house?’

‘I hope I didn’t sound as rude as that!’ said Fran, frowning.

‘No, it wasn’t rude. It was – um – enlightening.’ Jane looked down at the table. ‘I really think I ought to know if there’s anything there. To be found, I mean. I think I need to know.’

Fran sighed. ‘Well, I’ll have another go. Can I have a wander round the house sometime?’

‘Any time!’ said Jane. ‘We can go now if you like.’

‘Haven’t you got to get back to work?’ said Libby.

‘Oh – yes. But that doesn’t matter. I can let you in. Terry’s there.’

‘What about your new tenant?’

‘Mike’ll be at work. Mrs Finch will be there. I’m sure she’d let you into her flat.’

‘I think it would be better if you were there,’ said Fran. ‘Would it be convenient if I popped round this evening about eight?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Jane. ‘Then I could explain to the other tenants what was going on.’

‘Not too much,’ said Fran. ‘They’ll laugh at you. And me,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘That’s great.’ Jane stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink, Libby. Will you come tonight too?’

‘That depends on Fran,’ said Libby.

‘I don’t think I could stop her,’ said Fran, looking amused.

‘Do you think it will work?’ asked Libby when Jane had gone.

‘It’s the only thing other than the boat moment that has got the antennae twitching for ages, so it might. Funny.’ Fran looked out of the window at the sea. ‘Just those two.’

‘And the farm.’

‘That wasn’t connected.’

‘And you think the other two are?’ Libby’s voice rose in amazement.

‘I haven’t got a clue,’ said Fran, looking back at her with a smile. ‘It just feels right, somehow.’

‘Well, look what happened when you tried to connect all those other bits and pieces,’ said Libby. ‘You said yourself it was a dismal failure.’

‘Mmm.’ Fran’s gaze returned to the sea. ‘I think I’m going to have to sit down and work things out a bit better.’

‘How?’

‘Write them all down, then concentrate on them and see what happens. I can do it with photographs, now, can’t I?’

‘Yes.’ Libby looked at her watch. ‘Ben’ll be here in a minute. Shall I send him away? Then I can spend the afternoon helping you before we go to Peel House.’

‘If you send Ben away now he’ll probably never come back,’ laughed Fran, ‘and anyway, I’d prefer to be on my own while I try this.’

‘OK,’ said Libby, peering out of the landward window. ‘Here comes Ben. I’ll see you at Jane’s at eight, shall I?’

‘Come to me and we’ll go together,’ said Fran, getting to her feet and joining Libby at the door. ‘Although I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s certainly not to help the police, is it? It’s just sheer nosiness.’

‘We helped Bella when it wasn’t anything to do with the police, too,’ Libby reminded her, ‘but I know what you mean. Oh well, just call it a hobby.’

Ben was placated by the promise of a meal in The Swan, after grumbling most of the way back to Steeple Martin. Libby called Fran and suggested she drop Ben off with Guy first and then meet them when they’d finished at Peel House.

‘It’ll give us an excuse to get away if we need one,’ said Libby. ‘And I’ve promised to drive.’

At ten to eight, Ben was knocking on the door of the flat above Guy’s gallery and Fran was climbing into Romeo the Renault.

‘Still plenty of people about,’ said Libby, avoiding a family with young children strolling along Harbour Street with ice creams.

‘They might as well make the most of it if they’ve got young children,’ said Fran, ‘when they get back to their hotels or flats they can’t do much else, can they?’

‘No,’ agreed Libby. ‘We always let ours stay up when we were on holiday.’

This time, there was space to park almost in front of Peel House. Jane must have been watching for them, as the front door opened almost immediately.

‘Where do you want to start?’ she asked.

‘Which flat was Aunt Jessica’s?’ said Fran. ‘This ground floor one, wasn’t it?’

‘If you can call it ground floor,’ said Libby. ‘It’s first floor at the back, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, because we’re built on a slope away from the cliff. That’s why Mrs Finch has her own front door at the back.’

‘Is Mike in?’ asked Fran. ‘I don’t want to disturb him.’

‘I’ve already asked him if he minded if you came in. He doesn’t, but says he’s going out soon, so perhaps we’d better go in to him first,’ said Jane, lifting her hand to knock on the door.

Mike, as good-looking as Libby remembered him, opened the door with a smiling but watchful face.

‘And this is the clairvoyant lady?’ he asked, as Jane made introductions. Fran looked surprised.

‘Oh, I don’t think I’m clairvoyant,’ she said. ‘I just pick up things, now and again.’

‘I shall have to watch the silver, then, won’t I?’ he said with a short laugh. Jane looked at the ceiling and Libby stared. Fran smiled.

‘Shall we leave you alone?’ asked Jane.

‘No, I’m fine. If you wouldn’t mind me wandering round a bit?’ Fran turned to Mike.

‘Not at all,’ he said, sitting on a chair at the table and indicating that his guests should do so, too.

So, they sat and watched Fran walking round the room, occasionally trailing her fingers over a surface. She stood still by the window with her head bowed.

‘Was this Jessica’s bedroom?’ she asked suddenly.

Jane looked surprised. ‘Yes, it was. I thought it ought to be the sitting room because it has a view of the sea.’

Fran turned back to Mike. ‘Would it be a terrible imposition if I asked to see your bedroom?’

He smiled, shrugged and stood up to lead the way. Fran simply stood in the doorway, then, shaking her head, had a quick look in the kitchen and went back to the sitting room.

‘Thank you, Mike,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have been so intrusive, but it was on your landlady’s behalf.’

‘And Terry’s,’ said Mike. ‘To get to the bottom of his attack.’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ agreed Fran quickly.

With renewed thanks, they left the ground floor flat and Fran asked if she could go down to see Mrs Finch.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Jane.

‘If you like,’ said Fran. ‘Do you think she’d be more comfortable?’

‘Not really,’ said Jane ruefully. ‘I think I told you, she thinks of me as a sort of interloper. You’d do better on your own. She does know you’re coming.’

‘What did she say about it?’ asked Libby.

‘Not much. It was a bit like asking if she’d let the plumber in.’

‘And what did Mike say when you asked him?’ said Fran.

‘I told you, he was fine. It’s just that he was going out.’

Fran nodded. ‘OK, then, we’ll go round to Mrs Finch’s front door. Coming, Libby?’

Mrs Finch was small and thin, with abundant white hair and a crimplene suit in pale green.

‘What’s all this about then?’ she said, as soon as they were in her small, overcrowded front room.

‘Jessica Maurice,’ said Fran bluntly.

‘Hmph,’ said Mrs Finch, sitting down abruptly in a tapestry covered armchair opposite the large television.

‘You knew her well, I believe?’

‘I knew her. Used to come on our ’olidays. Good little guesthouse, this was.’ She looked round the room. ‘This was the dinin’ room.’

‘When was that?’ asked Libby.

‘In the fifties. Come every year, we did, even after the kids had grown up. Then the old man died and Jess turned this place into flats. So I moved in.’

‘The old man?’ asked Fran. Libby frowned at her.

‘Your husband, Mrs Finch?’ she said.

Mrs Finch looked at Fran in surprise. ‘That’s right, o’ course,’ she said. Fran blushed.

‘And did you ever know what Jessica had done before she ran a guesthouse?’

‘Did some sort o’ war work, like most of us,’ said Mrs Finch with a sniff. ‘Munitions, I was. She was in some sort of govn’ment office. Quite posh, she was.’ She looked up at the ceiling. ‘That niece of hers is the same.’

Libby hid a grin. ‘And that’s all you know about her?’ persisted Fran. ‘Did she ever have any visitors?’ ‘Whatcher talking about, gal? O’ course she had visitors! A dozen every week through the summer!’ ‘Come on, Fran,’ said Libby, getting to her feet. ‘I think we ought to leave Mrs Finch, now.’

Fran reluctantly followed suit.

‘O’ course,’ said Mrs Finch, just as they were opening the door, ‘there were always them foreigners who came to see her. Every couple of years they’d turn up for a couple o’ days and go off again.’

‘Foreigners?’ Fran turned back eagerly.

‘Yeah. Dark, they was. Every year. Eyetalians.’