LS 13 - Murder in a Different Place (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

‘Well, maybe not,’ said Harry. ‘That’s leaping to conclusions. Let’s just say he
might
be.’

‘Have you told Pete?’

‘Of course, you silly woman. We decided I would meet him. I called Deakin back and asked him to arrange a time and place.’

‘Couldn’t he come here? I want to see him!’

‘Libby, it isn’t a show put on for your benefit.’ Harry heaved a great sigh. ‘I just can’t believe this. Bloody melodrama gets more stupid every day.’

Libby was quiet for a moment.

‘You still there?’ said Harry.

‘Yes. I was just thinking. I was starting to research Reginald Morton this morning, so I’ll have a go at Andrew McColl, too. And I’ll ring Guy and see if he’s managed to get any more names from the blue book. Are you working at lunchtime?’

‘Course I am.’

‘I’ll pop in and let you know what I’ve found out.’

‘That’s just an excuse for me to give you a glass of wine.’

‘And a bowl of soup.’

‘All right, and a bowl of soup. Pete was going to look up McColl too, but he’s got a deadline. If he’s finished, I’ll get him to come along too.’

‘Ben’s over at the timber yard doing something important today, so he won’t come,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll see you at – what? When are you likely to be able to talk?

‘I’ve got no bookings, so it’ll be foot traffic. No idea. Just text me before you leave.’

It was almost one o’clock when Libby sent Harry a text.

‘Empty,’ came the reply. ‘Come now.’

Peter was already at the big table in the window to the right of the front door. Libby waved through the glass and he got up to open the door for her.

‘Got anything?’ he asked pulling out a chair.

‘Yes,’ said Libby, putting her laptop on the table. ‘And Fran’s joining us with the blue book.’

Peter raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ Libby beamed. ‘Where’s Hal?’

‘Here.’ Harry appeared carrying the cafetière and a bottle of red wine. ‘The Turkish one I told you about.’

‘Angora?’ read Libby. ‘That’s rabbits.’

‘It’s also Turkish wine, dear heart,’ said Peter. ‘I bet Guy knows all about it.’

‘Yes, we must get him to tell us all about that little hideaway,’ said Harry. ‘I’m going to need it after this.’

As Harry was setting out cutlery and glasses, Fran arrived.

‘Now we’re all here,’ said Harry, ‘what have you got?’

‘Well,’ began Libby, ‘I started with Reginald Morton, but broke off after Harry called, so I looked at Andrew McColl first. But let Fran tell you about the book. I called Guy to ask him if he’d been able to get anything more from it, and he said he had. Not a lot, but there were several names that had emerged.’

‘And here they are.’ Fran took the book from her bag and carefully opened it flat. ‘See, there are only a few pages that would open, and Guy thought that was probably the ones Matthew used most regularly.’

‘Although he wouldn’t have used them so much these days,’ said Harry. ‘He had a smartphone like everybody else.’

‘Except me,’ said Libby.

‘So where was that?’ asked Peter. ‘We never heard any mention of a mobile.’

‘That is odd,’ said Libby. ‘The sisters didn’t mention it, and as they have phones themselves they would have known how to go through it.’

‘And probably wouldn’t have needed us in the first place,’ said Fran.

‘So Matthew was as keen as the sisters to keep the secrets, both their shared one and his own personal ones,’ said Libby.

‘So he chucked it,’ said Harry. ‘Only thing that makes sense.’

‘Perhaps that’s what the sisters thought might be at Ship House or the Beach House?’ suggested Peter.

‘Could be,’ Harry nodded, ‘but I reckon he got rid of it. It must have had calls on it pointing to someone.’

‘Of course! The meeting he couldn’t attend and sent Celia to instead,’ said Libby.

‘Anyway, Fran, go on with the addresses,’ said Peter. ‘What did you find?’

‘I wrote out a list,’ said Fran, ‘but I’ll show you the entries. Here, see? The ones in biro are the ones that have stayed. What could be pencil marks are just faint indentations – not even that.’ She carefully turned over pages and then pushed a sheet of paper into the middle of the table. ‘And there’s the list.’

‘There are nineteen names,’ said Libby, ‘and none of them rung any bells until we looked at the research I was doing.’

‘Go on – one of them’s a Morton?’ said Harry.

‘No, but look at the first name we found. That’s Andrew Foster McColl, that is.’

Harry and Peter looked stunned. Libby was beaming in triumph.

‘Looks as though we’re right, then,’ said Harry at last. ‘McColl is Lucifer.’

‘What’s even better,’ said Fran, ‘is that he first made his name in a sixties revival of Marlowe’s
Doctor Faustus
, where he played the Devil.’

‘And he’s married to Fay Scott,’ added Libby, ‘and has been for donkey’s years.’

‘So did his and Matthew’s relationship pre-date McColl’s marriage?’ asked Peter.

‘We can’t tell, nor do we know why there’d been no contact for the last couple of years,’ said Fran. ‘Harry said he thought Lucifer was dead, didn’t you, Hal?’

Harry nodded. ‘And he isn’t. And I’m going to meet him. Bloody hell.’

‘Let’s have the soup,’ said Peter, ‘then we can see what you’ve got on the Morton story. I’ve still got my deadline, but I decided I could take a lunch break. As long as it’s in by the end of the working day.’

Libby went to help Harry fetch soup plates, bread, and a tureen, and they all helped themselves to Harry’s spicy Mexican soup. After his second bowlful, Peter sat back with a replete: ‘Ah!’

‘You want the rest, now, then?’ said Libby, topping up her wine glass.

‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘Trot it out, then.’

‘Reginald Morton, we know, was born in 1893. I couldn’t resist looking up a bit about him last night, but Ben got bolshie and said we’d been waiting to watch some programme on television so I had to stop.

‘Anyway, his parents were part of a rather arty circle on the Isle of Wight. A lot of artists gathered there, some taking houses on the Island for the whole summer.’

‘Like Lamorna Cove,’ said Fran. Harry looked confused.

‘In Cornwall. Same sort of thing,’ said Peter.

‘So Reginald was born into this sort of circle, and it continued as he grew up. He began to make a name for himself, and then he fell in love with Tallulah DeLaxley.’

‘Matthew’s aunt,’ said Fran.

‘They married in 1918, after he came home from France, where he’d improved his standing in poetry circles by writing war poetry.’

‘Oh, of course!’ said Peter.

‘They had five children. Alicia, Amelia, Honoria, Celia and –’ Libby paused for effect.

‘Alfred!’ chorused the other three.

‘So we were right,’ said Harry. ‘That’s the secret the sisters are trying to keep. That their brother Alfred was a traitor – or a spy – during the last war and committed suicide after it. Nothing in that account about Matthew?’

‘Not on the website, which seems to be run by a PhD student at Oxford, but on the Wiki entry it does mention that Alfred took his own life in 1949. It doesn’t say why.’

‘Well, I think we’ve all been very clever,’ said Harry. ‘We worked it all out.’

‘You did how much?’ asked Peter, amused.

‘I helped. And I
was
the story to start with, wasn’t I?’

‘It’s all very well,’ said Libby, ‘but although we’ve solved both the mysteries – mainly because other people have come forward, like Jeannette and Andrew McColl – and even Hetty – we still don’t know why someone’s after Harry!’

They all looked at one another.

‘That’s true.’ Peter put an anxious hand on Harry’s arm. ‘Perhaps I’d better bring the computer in here this afternoon if you’ve got prepping up to do.’

‘Don’t fuss.’ Harry patted Peter’s hand. ‘I’m all right here. And who’s going to attack me here in broad daylight, especially if I work with the kitchen door open so I can be seen from the street? And lock the back door?’

‘Hmm,’ said Peter.

‘But we don’t know who and why,’ said Fran. ‘The idea that it’s the sisters seems a bit farcical.’

‘I suppose what we could do is let them know we know all about their brother, then they should stop being silly about everything.’

‘You’re forgetting something,’ said Peter. ‘They still think Celia was murdered. And if they’re right …’

‘You’re right, I was forgetting,’ said Libby, frowning. ‘Now, where does that fit in?’

‘Matthew wasn’t well enough to meet this person, whoever it was, and Celia said she would go instead.’ Harry stated the facts.

‘And because she hadn’t got, or wouldn’t give, whatever it was the person wanted, he knocked her over the head and left her to drown,’ continued Peter.

‘Then Matthew dies. And the sisters receive the letter about “the young friend”. They still think the whole thing is about their traitorous brother, and send the letter on to Harry, whom they assume is the friend in question, but don’t believe Matthew would have said anything about Alfred to him,’ continued Libby.

‘And he didn’t,’ said Harry.

‘No, because it was shameful. And that’s the reason,’ said Libby, ‘that no mention was ever made about the relationship with the illustrious Reginald, because any research on him was likely to throw up Alfred’s treachery.’

‘But they think whoever killed Celia knows the secret and, desperate to keep it safe, try and find out who killed her by asking us but not telling us the reason,’ concluded Fran. ‘Neat.’

‘Has anyone thought to look up Matthew’s Wiki entry?’ said Harry suddenly. ‘I assume he’s got one. He didn’t have a website, I know that.’

Libby obediently typed in Matthew’s name.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s one of those “citation needed” pieces. Just says born 1925, worked for the
Daily Sketch
and then as a freelance.’

‘Nothing about family then,’ said Peter. ‘What a nuisance.’

‘Let’s go back to old Reggie,’ said Harry. ‘What about this Overcliffe Castle?’

Libby went back to the Reginald Morton website. ‘It’s not particularly informative about that. It says he lived there with his wife and children, and it became the centre of a group of artists, writers and poets who gathered on the Island every summer.’

‘Try searching Overcliffe Castle, then,’ said Peter.

‘Nothing much more. It was sold in the early fifties –’

‘When Reginald died,’ put in Fran.

‘Probably. The person who bought it tried to turn it into a hotel, but it wasn’t successful. Then the cliff began to crumble and it had to be demolished in the sixties.’

‘Which we knew, because it was on that plaque,’ said Fran.

‘So all along it belonged to the Morton family and not the DeLaxleys,’ said Harry. ‘So the land probably belongs to the sisters, not Matthew.’

‘That’s a point,’ said Peter. ‘You’ll have to get your Mr Deakin to look into that for you.’

‘Come to think of it, Candle Cove probably belonged to the sisters,’ said Libby. ‘The steps lead up to the top just below their house.’

‘But the Beach House …?’ said Harry.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Libby sighed. ‘Just as we think we’ve solved it all, up comes something else that needs explaining.’

The bell tinkled over the restaurant door.

‘Bugger,’ muttered Harry. ‘Forgot to lock it.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said the elderly gentleman who had come through the door. ‘It does say open.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Harry stood up. ‘Please come in.’

‘Actually,’ said the man, looking up into Harry’s face. ‘I believe it might be you I’ve come to see. My name’s Andrew McColl.’

Chapter Twenty-seven

In the middle of a sip of wine, Libby choked.

Peter stood up. ‘Go up to the flat, Hal.’

Harry, standing fishlike with his mouth open, pulled himself together. ‘Er, yes. Pleased to meet you, Mr McColl.’

Andrew McColl, looking amused, shook his hand and looked at the group round the table.

‘I don’t want to interrupt –’

‘No,’ said Libby hurriedly, ‘we were just –’

‘Finishing lunch,’ Ben said, and trod on her foot. ‘Go on, Hal, you pop upstairs, we’ll clear up here.’

Harry led his visitor through the kitchen to the spiral staircase in the back yard and Peter turned the sign to ‘Closed’.

‘Well.’ He turned and looked at Fran, Ben and Libby. ‘How unexpected.’

‘He had asked to meet Hal,’ said Libby.

‘But only this morning,’ said Fran.

‘Mr Deakin must have called him the minute Hal said yes.’ Libby began collecting plates.

‘And he came straight down? Must be urgent,’ said Peter.

‘I wonder why he hasn’t been in touch before if it is,’ said Fran.

‘Perhaps he didn’t know about Hal the same as Hal didn’t know who he was,’ suggested Libby.

‘That makes sense. Should I take them some coffee?’ Peter shook the сafetière dubiously.

‘Hal will offer, I expect,’ said Fran. ‘Come on, let’s clear up.’

Ten minutes later, Harry shouted down the outside staircase for a pot of tea.

‘Sorry, Lib, but could you make it? You’re best at it. And Earl Grey, if we’ve got it.’

Libby found the Earl Grey and a china pot.

‘Will you take it up?’ she asked Peter.

‘No. He asked for you, so you do it.’

Libby loaded pot, milk and cups onto a tray and nervously carried it up the spiral staircase. Harry opened the door at the top and grinned at her.

‘Come in.’

Libby went past him into the living area of the flat which Fran had rented for a time and Libby’s son Adam had occupied until very recently. Andrew McColl was sitting in the middle of the sofa looking tired.

‘You’re Libby.’ He smiled up at her. ‘I’ve been hearing all about you.’

‘Not that much,’ put in Harry hastily. ‘We haven’t covered much ground yet.’

‘I would like to meet you all properly. Could I take you all out to dinner?’ Andrew took a cup from Libby.

‘It’s very nice of you, but I had a night off from this place yesterday,’ said Harry. ‘I can’t take another. I haven’t got the staff.’

‘It’s Wednesday and we’re rehearsing,’ said Libby. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Rehearsing?’ Andrew McColl’s eyes lit up, and Libby blushed.

‘Oh, only an amateur show for Nethergate’s Alexandria.’

‘I’d love to hear about that.’ McColl looked as though he would quite happily sit in the flat all afternoon.

‘I’d better leave you and Harry to finish your conversation. I’m sure you’ll sort something out between you.’ Libby smiled at both men and went back downstairs, where she reported the conversation. ‘And I don’t think we’d better still be here when they come down,’ she finished, ‘or we might look too nosy.’

They duly finished tidying up the kitchen and left. Ben went back to the Manor, Peter to his cottage and Fran accompanied Libby back to Allhallow’s Lane.

‘You’re not going to go back home this afternoon, are you?’ asked Libby, as she moved the big kettle onto the Rayburn’s hotplate. ‘It hardly seems worth it when you’re coming up for rehearsal this evening.’

‘No, I told Guy I’d eat at the caff. Or the pub.’

‘Don’t be daft, you can eat here,’ said Libby. ‘I expect it will be shepherd’s pie or something equally boring. So what do we think about what’s going on back there now?’

‘I was just wondering,’ said Fran, frowning, ‘if that man found Hal so quickly today, has he been here before?’

‘You mean –’ Libby paused with mugs in hand.

‘Hal’s warning letter.’

‘I can’t see it,’ said Libby. ‘If he’s Lucifer, he’s got nothing to do with old secrets on the Island, has he?’

‘He
is
an old secret,’ said Fran. ‘Maybe he doesn’t want Hal telling.’

‘He was quite happy to see all of us this afternoon and announce his presence. Deakin knows, too, so he can’t mean Hal any harm.’

‘Oh, well.’ Fran perched on the edge of the table. ‘We’ll hear from Hal soon enough.’

It was another hour before Harry called.

‘He’s booking in to the pub,’ he said. ‘And eating here. I shall introduce him to Patti and Anne. Then he wants to go and watch your rehearsal. Can he?’

‘Oh, Harry!’ wailed Libby. ‘He’s a professional! He can’t come and watch us.’

‘Why not? He’s not stuck-up or anything. You’d never know he was famous. anyway, he said he’d like to join us for a drink afterwards. Anyway, half of you are ex-pro.’

Libby sighed. ‘Just don’t tell me if he does come.’

‘All right, you silly mare.’ Libby could hear the smile in Harry’s voice.

‘How did it go, anyway? What did he want?’

‘Fine. He didn’t want anything, really, just to know me. Matthew didn’t tell him anything about me, just as I didn’t know about him. But there’s more to tell, so he’s going to stay around for a few days. We won’t be able to discuss it tonight, but I’ll tell you what I can tomorrow.’

‘I’ll die of curiosity before then,’ grumbled Libby.

‘Sounds all right, then?’ said Fran, chopping onions for the shepherd’s pie.

‘Yes. Not sure we’ll get all of it, though,’ said Libby, staring out of the window into the conservatory, where her easel stood, reproaching her.

It was while Libby, Ben and Fran were preparing to leave for the theatre that Harry called again.

‘Andrew and I thought we might all have a drink in the theatre bar after rehearsal, then we can talk about everything.’

‘Like we did with Ian,’ said Libby. ‘Poor Anne and Patti. They’ll think we don’t love them any more.’

‘I’m going to explain. They’ll be here any minute.’

‘Do you think this Andrew will have any light to shed on our mysteries?’ asked Ben, as they walked to the theatre.

‘No idea. He’s known – or rather, he knew – Matthew longer than anyone else except the sisters.’

‘And those other old people from the Island,’ said Fran.

‘Yes. We’ve still not met Lady Bligh or the elder Clippings, have we?’ Libby sighed. ‘And Andrew won’t have done, either.’

‘But Matthew might have told him about them,’ said Ben.

‘Hmm,’ said Libby doubtfully.

Peter was making a lighting plot to take to the technicians at the Alexandria, and causing an interesting effect of colours to play across the cast as they sang their way through Victorian and Edwardian seaside songs.

‘Can you stop for the soloists?’ Libby shouted up to the box at the end of one chorus set. ‘They’ll fall off the stage.’

‘Remarkable you haven’t done so already,’ came an amused voice from the back of the auditorium.

Libby shaded her eyes and saw a small figure waving.

‘Mr McColl? Is that you?’

‘Andrew, please. I hope you don’t mind.’

She turned back to the stage to see the entire cast wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

‘Andrew McColl?’

‘
The
Andrew McColl?’

‘The actor?’

‘Him that was in that Austen serial?’

‘Oh, glory!’

‘Look, he’s here as an old friend of – of –’

‘Matthew DeLaxley’s.’ Andrew had come up to the stage. ‘I’ve come to see Harry and Peter – and Libby, too, of course. Please don’t worry about me. Ignore me. I’ll just carry on sitting at the back.’ He turned away, then turned back. ‘Oh, and Libby, I’m enjoying it!’

The soloists were, quite naturally, nervous about performing in front of so illustrious an actor, so Libby took them through another chorus set to give them confidence. This set concentrated on pub and drinking songs, which allowed everyone to become slightly more rowdy and raucous, so the soloists were suitably warmed up by the time their turn came.

At a quarter to ten Libby called a halt.

‘See you all on Friday and we’ll run it,’ she said. ‘Only a week more of rehearsal and then it’s for real.’

As the cast drifted out and Libby collected up props and music, Andrew strolled up to the stage again.

‘Most impressive,’ he said. ‘Surely everyone isn’t an amateur?’

‘Most of them,’ smiled Libby. ‘Some are ex-pros, some were trained but never broke through. Most of our techies are pros, although Peter isn’t. Even my Ben did a stint as a pro stage hand and a tour with a TIE company.’

She called into the backstage area and Ben appeared, turning off lights as he passed them.

‘You’re pro, though?’ said Andrew, as Libby and Ben joined him in the auditorium.

‘Ex,’ said Libby. ‘Now I’m a director of this theatre with Ben, here, and Peter. We don’t get paid, but we love it.’

‘What about this show you’re doing for another theatre?’

‘The End Of The Pier Show,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘We did it for the Alexandria in Nethergate last year when they were let down by another booking, and it went so well we’re back again. This time we’re doing Fridays and Saturdays for the whole of August, though. It’s a big commitment for people with day jobs.’

‘And do you get paid for that?’

‘Well, yes. It comes to the board, and we elected to distribute among the members who are taking part,’ said Libby, as they emerged into the bar area, where Peter was already opening bottles and polishing glasses.

‘It’s quite handy, too,’ said Ben, pulling out chairs round one of the little tables as Fran joined them, ‘that soloists can slot in or out, so if someone has a wedding or holiday or something planned they can be out for a week and back in the next.’

‘How lovely to own a theatre,’ said Andrew a little wistfully as he looked round.

‘It is,’ said Libby, ‘and we’re gradually getting round the snooty people who look down on amateur theatre. We have pro companies here, too, and one-nighters. Singers and comedians, usually.’

‘I shall have to see what I can do,’ said Andrew. ‘I should love to put something on here. Your facilities seem excellent.’

‘Oh, they are,’ said Peter. ‘Because we don’t pay rent or have the huge running costs of other companies, all our revenue goes back into the building, so we can afford to keep updating lighting and sound and backstage facilities.’

‘You don’t go on yourself, then?’ said Andrew.

‘Not me!’ Peter grinned. ‘I love theatre, but I limit my involvement to fiddling about with the technical stuff, occasional writing, and directing.’

‘And Harry?’

‘No, he doesn’t appear, either, although people have said he should,’ said Libby.

‘He’ll be here as soon as he can shut up the caff,’ said Peter. ‘What will you have to drink, Andrew?’

After they had all been served with drinks, with coffee as usual for Fran, Harry appeared.

‘I’ve packed Patti and Anne off,’ he said. ‘They were most intrigued.’

‘They were a nice couple of women,’ said Andrew. ‘I was most surprised to find out that Patti was a priest.’

‘The Reverend Patti Pearson, no less,’ said Libby. ‘We got involved with her through murder, too.’

A tense little silence descended on the company, and Libby felt heat rising up her neck and into her face.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Well, that as good a place to start as any,’ said Andrew with a small smile. ‘So, as you’ve all been involved in murder, as Libby says, shall I tell my tale?’