Murder in Steeple Martin (7 page)

Almost in slow motion the bridge groaned, creaked and began to crack. With sounds like pistol shots it splintered and gave way. Van, squealing in terror, was already almost across, and scrambled inelegantly on to the further bank, but Peter, baggage and all, turned a somersault, grabbed vainly at the rotting railing and fell in.

With a distinct sense of deja-vu, Libby heard the momentary silence, then the explosion of sound as everybody rushed forward. A good deal of the noise was coming from Peter, who, it appeared, was not badly hurt, other than in his dignity. Van rushed up and down the opposite bank in short bursts, wailing ‘My equipment. My equipment,’ while Lenny seemed to be doing a little dance on the spot, encouraging Ben and Harry, who were sliding down the bank to help Peter. Libby moved to a safe vantage point, ready to reach out and take the various cases as they were handed up.

Peter emerged in a rush, covered in mud and various other unpleasant detritus, swearing fluently, ‘Just like a navvy, darling,’ as Harry said, admiringly. Ben was left to encourage Van down from her side, catching her as she slid awkwardly on her bottom, whereupon she clung to him so tightly that Libby began to get quite hot under the collar. With Ben behind and Harry pulling from in front, she finally landed in a heap at Libby’s feet, still wailing.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Libby bending to assist her to her feet. ‘I can’t think how it happened. It was quite safe yesterday. I’m
so
sorry.’

But Van was inconsolable. They loaded her in beside Ben, and Lenny came in the back of Peter’s vehicle with Libby, with Harry driving.

‘Somebody’d had a go at that bridge.’ Peter broke the silence as they bumped towards The Manor.

Nobody answered him.

‘I saw it. Where it split. Somebody’d had a go at it.’

‘Wouldn’t take much, Pete. It was rotten anyway.’ Harry patted his knee.

‘It took our weight yesterday – and we stood on it together,’ said Libby.

‘Perhaps that was the last straw, then? Whoops, sorry.’ Harry was contrite.

‘Why would anybody do that?’ asked Libby.

‘Me. That’s what it was. To get me.’ Lenny spoke for the first time.

‘You?’ They all turned to look at him. ‘Why?’

‘Don’t matter why. Just was, I tell yer,’ and Lenny, for once quite serious, refused to say another word.

At The Manor, Van had already been hustled upstairs by Hetty, and Ben called out that he was taking his father up to his room.

‘Kettle’s on. Help yourselves.’

‘I’m going fer a lie down,’ announced Lenny and without looking at any of them he left the kitchen, his step considerably less springy than usual.

Libby and Harry looked at Peter.

‘I want a bath,’ he said.

‘Come on, then, I’ll take you home. Will you stay here and help Ben with Vanny Fanacapan, Libby?’

‘All right,’ said Libby helplessly, ‘but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’

‘Neither do I, love. Stop her suing us, I suppose.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Libby’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘You don’t think …?’

‘Hazards of the job,’ said Peter. ‘Silly cow, anyway. Am-dram, indeed.’

Libby giggled, and, suddenly, they were all laughing hysterically, clutching each other. Ben came in and looked on, astonished.

‘Are you going to let me in on it?’ he asked.

‘Release of tension, dear heart,’ said Peter, his good humour restored. ‘I’m going to have a bath and Libby is going to help you stop Call-me-Van suing us.’

‘Could she?’ Ben looked startled.

‘If she finds out that bridge was sabotaged, yes. Come on, Hal. Take me home and bathe me.’

‘Sabotaged?’ Ben turned to Libby when they were alone.

‘Peter thinks so. He says he could see it when he went down.’

‘But why?’

‘That’s what we’d all like to know.’ Libby sighed. ‘I’m getting sick of this, Ben.’

‘It can’t have any connection.’ He came round the table and pushed her gently into a chair.

‘Lenny thinks it was to get at him. He was quite serious about it.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘True.’ Libby looked over at the Aga where a kettle was beginning to sing. ‘Shall I make some tea?’

Ben laid a tray to take upstairs and found two teapots. Libby waited for the tea to draw, gazing out of the kitchen window over fields and copses, bleached of their colour by the low cloud and rain.

‘I’m going to tackle Lenny.’ Ben came back into the room and flung himself into a Windsor chair by the Aga.

‘Will he tell you anything?’

‘I don’t know. I would have thought he would want to, now, but you can’t tell with Lenny. He can be an awkward old sod.’

‘I can’t help feeling responsible, you know.’ Libby carried cups to the table.

‘Why? Because of the play? It wasn’t your idea. That’s all down to Peter and me. I’m beginning to wish we’d left well alone, now.’

‘But you couldn’t have known. After all, it was a family decision, wasn’t it? And, from what Peter said, the story was never covered up. He’s known about it since he was a child. You must have done, too.’

‘That’s what puzzles me. It almost looks as though whoever cut the wire and damaged the bridge must have a grudge against us – and possibly the theatre. Nothing to do with the story. Millie getting upset must be a red herring.’

‘Then why does Lenny think someone’s out to get him?’

‘Oh, God. I don’t know.’ Ben leaned forward and put his head in his hands. ‘You must be beginning to wish you’d never met this family.’

Libby gazed down at his bent head.

‘No,’ she said softly. ‘No, I don’t wish that. And maybe we’re jumping to conclusions. Perhaps they were both accidents and we’re being paranoid.’

He looked up, his eyes very bright blue in the gathering gloom of the kitchen.

‘Let’s put on some lights,’ said Libby hastily, jumping up. ‘It’s getting awfully dark.’

Hetty came in to the kitchen and lowered herself into a chair by the table. She didn’t look up.

‘Mum?’ Ben got up and went over to her. ‘How are they all?’

‘Lenny and your father are lying down and that silly girl’s in the bath. I’ve sponged off all her leather gear and she’s checked her precious equipment. None of it’s broke.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Libby sat down opposite her. ‘Are you all right, Hetty?’

‘I’m all right, girl. I’m always all right, aren’t I, Ben?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ he said, giving her a hug.

‘You’ll stay for a bit of dinner, Libby?’ The old lady straightened thin shoulders. ‘I’ve got a nice bit of beef in the slow oven. Thought we’d have it tonight instead of lunchtime, what with this photo business.’

‘Are you sure it’s no trouble?’ Libby looked from Hetty to Ben.

‘No, we’d love you to stay,’ said Ben, and Libby blushed.

‘Can I do anything to help, then?’

‘No, it’s all done. Just got to put the veg on and the Yorkshire in. Have it about six, shall we? After we’ve got rid of that girl.’

‘Better make it half-past, Mum. She might take a lot of getting rid of.’

As it happened, Van was only too eager to shake the dust of The Manor off her feet, swearing that she was fine, the equipment was fine, and yes, Nobby would write the piece if they would send him all the details. Relieved, they helped her load her car and waved her on her way.

‘Ben!’ shrieked Libby as they watched her car bowling down the drive. ‘We forgot the cast. At the theatre.’

‘Christ,’ said Ben rushing inside and grabbing his jacket. ‘I’d better get down there fast. If they’re still there.’

‘I’ll come with you.’ Libby threw her cape around her with such violence that it nearly strangled her. ‘Come on.’

But when they arrived at the theatre it was to find Stephen just about to lock up.

‘Don’t worry, we heard. I phoned and spoke to your mother.’

‘I wonder when that was? I didn’t hear the phone.’ Libby looked at Ben.

‘You can’t hear it in the kitchen if the door’s closed. Oh, well, all that rushing for nothing. Thanks, Stephen, we’ll finish locking up.’

‘So what exactly happened?’ asked Stephen.

‘Peter fell off the bridge,’ said Libby. ‘That’s all.’

‘And the photographer?’

‘Well, yes, she did too, only not right into the ditch,’ said Libby, wondering why Stephen was looking so suspicious.

‘Why were you there, Libby? I thought it was about the family?’

Ben raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s the director, of course. Wouldn’t you expect her to be there?’

‘Not if it was only family,’ said Stephen, turning away.

All three of them went round the theatre turning off lights and double-checking the set, then stopped to admire the new auditorium seats that had been delivered on Friday.

‘We’ll fix these in on Tuesday – you’re not rehearsing then, are you?’ said Stephen.

‘Well, I did think I might put in an extra rehearsal –’

‘Do it Friday. Better nearer the time,’ said Ben. ‘They’ll still have two days off before the dress.’

‘OK, then, I’ll be off.’ Stephen stood irresolute, hands pushed down into his coat pockets. ‘Do you need a lift, Lib?’

‘Er – I’m going back to The Manor, thanks, Stephen. Hetty invited me to dinner.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Right. See you tomorrow, then.’ Without looking at either of them, he turned abruptly and went out of the auditorium.

‘I don’t think he’s my best friend, you know, Lib,’ said Ben.

‘Awful, wasn’t it? I don’t know what to do about him. Does he really fancy me, or am I imagining it?’ Libby frowned. ‘He could just be being protective.’

‘Was that pigs I heard landing on the roof?’

‘Well, he could be, couldn’t he? Otherwise I’m taking the most awful advantage of him.’

‘He didn’t have to do it, you know. He enjoys being needed and he knows he’s good at his job. He’s one of the best set builders and designers I know.’

‘Yes, but now he’s going to fit the seats.’

‘We’re all going to do that,’ said Ben.

‘I was going to do a without-cast technical on Friday.’

‘Stop making difficulties, woman,’ he turned to her in the semi-darkness and shook her gently. ‘Do a with-cast tech on Thursday, instead. You’ve gone through the lighting and sound plots, and they’ve got the hang of the scene changes –’

‘If nothing breaks,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ben, and kissed her.

It wasn’t a very long kiss, but Libby felt as though she’d been filleted.

‘Sorry,’ said Ben, and had to clear his throat. ‘I just wanted to shut you up.’

‘You did,’ croaked Libby.

‘I said I wouldn’t rush you.’

‘Yes,’ said Libby.

He turned her round and pushed her through the auditorium doors. ‘Go on, you go outside. I’ll just lock up.’

As they walked up the drive, Ben reached out and took Libby’s hand, tucking it into his pocket. Neither of them said anything.

Dinner was served at the long kitchen table. Gregory and Lenny both came down, although Lenny was still very subdued. Gregory did his best to be a charming host, and succeeded, Libby seeing in him the young man who had bowled Hetty over and unwittingly caused the whole chain of events which, even now, were having their effect on his family. They drank a very good wine, chosen by Hetty, to Libby’s surprise, and afterwards Hetty allowed them a brandy, to be taken in the sitting room.

‘Let me wash up, Hetty,’ said Libby as they left the table.

‘Goes in the dishwasher, girl. Ben’ll help you load it, but leave the pans to me. I like to do them meself.’

‘Strong woman, your mother, isn’t she?’ said Libby as they stacked plates together.

‘She’s had to be.’

‘Millie’s not very like her.’

‘No. Takes after their father, I gather. Apt to act first and think afterwards.’

They both stopped and looked at each other.

‘Yes, well. So Hetty takes after their mother, then?’

‘Peas in a pod, so I’ve heard. I only remember her vaguely, but she looked just like my mother does now, I think.’

‘You look like your father.’

‘Do I? That’s good. I’ve always thought of him as a remarkably good-looking man.’

Libby threw a dishcloth at him.

‘Come on. Let’s go and get our share of the brandy before they finish the bottle.’

Later, Ben walked Libby home – ‘So that I can have something stronger, this time.’

‘No rushing,’ she warned him, wanting him to all the same.

But he didn’t. They sat companionably by her fire, which she lit as soon as she came in, drinking the last of her precious scotch. Sidney deigned to honour them with his presence, even going so far as to forsake Libby’s feet for Ben’s. Ben appeared duly sensible of the honour.

When he left, he kissed her again, but gently.

‘See you tomorrow?’

‘Rehearsal’s at seven-thirty.’

‘I’ll be there.’

Chapter Nine – 1943

T
HE
LORRY WAS PARKED
outside by ten o’clock at night and one by one the families carried out their belongings. Hetty took it in turns with her mother to look after Millie, who was infected by the excitement and the enthusiastic shouts of the other children, some of whom had been put to bed early to make up for the lost night’s sleep ahead of them but had failed to stay there, escaping while their mothers and elder siblings were busy with the lorry.

It was midnight when they were ready to leave, and Ted hadn’t returned home. Lillian shrugged, climbed on to the lorry and reached down for Millie. ‘Best we get going,’ she said shortly, and Hetty ran round to the other side to look for Flo.

‘Come on. We’re ready. Where’s your mum?’

‘Already on, with Gran. Where’s your Lenny?’

‘Helping lift the kids on round the other side. Oh, don’t make up to him, Flo. It makes him miserable.’ Hetty paused with her hand on Flo’s arm.

Flo grinned. ‘Wasn’t going to.’

‘You can’t help making up to Lenny – or anyone else. Comes natural, don’t it?’

Flo regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Suppose so. Like old Carpenter.’

‘But not Warburton, eh?’ said Hetty, and they both giggled.

The sky was just beginning to lighten in the east when the lorry lurched to a halt and Hetty sat up rubbing her eyes. Still clasping Millie, she got awkwardly to her feet, stiff and aching from the cramped journey. She clambered down in to the farm yard, aware of Frank Carpenter standing over near the oast house, already talking to Flo whose hand in her hair and out-thrust hip proclaimed her interest in the older man, however much she tried to deny it.

‘Come on, Het.’ Lenny jerked his head in Flo’s direction. ‘We got work to do even if she hasn’t.’

They began to unload their belongings from the lorry and Hetty wheeled the hopping box across to what they called the Common, where the rows of hoppers’ huts stood. It was a good farm. Only two years ago, the huts had been rebuilt, long stone buildings with corrugated iron roofs replacing the ramshackle wooden sheds. Hetty parked the hopping box outside number 26, hoisted Millie more securely onto her hip and made her way back to the yard to collect the hopping pot and anything else she could carry. She passed Flo carrying assorted bags and wearing a satisfied grin.

‘Old Carpenter making up to you again, is he?’ whispered Hetty as they passed.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Flo tossed her head and then ruined the effect by giggling. ‘I’ll see you later – when we’ve finished.’

Hetty nodded. They had the whole day to themselves to settle in, because the other pickers wouldn’t arrive until later in the afternoon and picking wouldn’t start until the following day.

Lenny joined her outside the hut, and then Lillian arrived with the padlock and key. The familiar smell of damp greeted them as they opened the door and Lenny hoisted up the roll of lino and rolled it inside.

‘I got to go back with the lorry now, Mum,’ he said, straightening up. ‘I’d help whitewash if I could, but the lorry’s got to be back before eight.’

‘Go on then, son,’ Lillian reached up and kissed him, ruffling his hair. ‘See you at the weekend. Look after yer dad.’

‘Bye, Lenny.’ Hetty kissed him too, and Millie held out chubby baby arms to him. Lenny buried his face in her neck and blew a raspberry. Millie squealed with delight.

‘Say goodbye to Flo for me.’ Lenny looked round but Flo was nowhere to be seen. ‘I’ll see her at the weekend.’

Hetty began to walk back to the lorry with him. ‘Don’t pay any attention to her, Len. You know what she’s like.’

‘A flirt,’ said Lenny shortly. ‘She’ll get into trouble one of these days, you see if she don’t.’

‘Ah, she knows what she’s doing,’ said Hetty confidently.

‘No, she ruddy doesn’t.’ In the half light of dawn, Hetty knew her brother had coloured fiercely. ‘She’ll lead the wrong one on, one of these days.’

‘No.’ Hetty shivered in spite of herself. ‘Not you, any rate.’

‘No, not me.’ Lenny sounded miserable. ‘But I’d like to wring her neck, sometimes.’

Hetty watched as he climbed back on the lorry with the other men who were travelling back to the empty street, and waved with the wives and children as it pulled out of the farmyard. She stood watching absently as it disappeared up the rutted track while the bustle around her subsided as the yard emptied.

‘Little Henrietta, isn’t it?’

Hetty swung round and came face to face with a short stocky man, his dark rough jacket and waistcoat unbuttoned over his shirt, his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his trousers. His face was shadowed, but she felt a leap of apprehension as she recognised him.

‘Hallo, Mr Warburton.’ She edged sideways to get past him, but he stepped neatly into her path.

‘Growing up, ain’t yer?’ His Kentish burr was soft, but Hetty heard menace in his tone. ‘Pretty little thing, now.’

Hetty’s stomach lurched and she found that she was shaking.

‘I got to get back to help me mum, Mr Warburton. She’s got the baby, you see …’

‘Of course she has, Hetty – that’s what they call you, isn’t it? Hetty?’

‘Er, yes. Me friends do,’ Hetty mumbled as he fell into step beside her.

‘Oh, I’m your friend, Hetty. Never you doubt that.’ He laughed and spat, and Hetty shuddered. ‘Never you doubt that. You tell your mum, and all. Warburton’s your friend.’ He swung away from her, still laughing softly, and Hetty’s ears rang with the unmistakable emphasis he had placed on the last word. Wrapping her arms around herself, she ran through the chilly morning back to the hut and safety.