Murder in the Green (29 page)

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

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

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

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

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

Libby told Ben what Harry had said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Bricks and straw,’ said Fran, nodding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Mrs Maurice, look.’

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

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

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

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

‘Bit bigger than ours,’ said Fran.

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

‘Where?’

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty-nine

‘How embarrassing,’ said Fran, turning away.

‘Embarrassing? Why?’

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

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

‘She might be, but you’re not.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Should you not tell the police?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I suppose not,’ muttered Libby.

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

‘So why did you want to?’

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

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

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

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

‘I know it,’ nodded Libby.

‘Do you?’ Wilhelmina looked surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Right.’ Libby nodded.

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

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

‘And you’re going to see Wilhelmina?’

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

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

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

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

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