THE PHONE WOKE LIBBY far too early.
‘Libby? It’s Rosie. I didn’t wake you, did I?’
‘No,’ croaked Libby. ‘Course not.’
‘Only I want to go and see the barn. I don’t know how to get there. Would you take me?’
Libby struggled to sit up.
‘Um – yes.’ She cleared her throat, and Ben opened his eyes. ‘When did you want to go?’ Ben groaned and turned over.
‘Well – sometime today,’ said Rosie. ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ she added hastily.
‘Can I ring you back?’ asked Libby, glancing at the clock. ‘It’s only twenty to eight.’
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry. Of course.’
‘Did you call Fran?’
‘No. I don’t know why, I just thought -’
‘That I’d be more likely to say yes.’
There was a small chuckle. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I’ll wait for your call.’
‘What was that about?’ Ben heaved himself onto one elbow. Libby told him.
‘Will you go?’
‘I can’t think of an excuse not to. Unless I say Ian won’t let us near the site.’
‘Well, he probably won’t,’ said Ben, and swung his legs out of bed. ‘I’m going to make tea. Do you want it up here?’
‘No,’ sighed Libby. ‘I’m awake now. I’ll come down.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ Ben said ten minutes later, as they sat at the kitchen table.
‘Phone Fran.’
‘Not Ian?’
‘I think it might not be the right thing to do,’ said Libby. ‘If Rosie wants to, fine. I shall tell her I don’t think Ian would allow it, then she can take it from there.’
‘Sensible.’ Ben stood up. ‘Well, as I’m up early, I might as well go up to the office early. Then I might be back early.’ He leered at her. ‘I might get a repeat performance.’
‘Don’t push your luck.’ Libby grinned up at him.
Deciding that it was too early to ring Fran, Libby rang Rosie back instead.
‘Look, Rosie, Ian’s not going to want to you poking around the murder site. In fact, you won’t be allowed to. There will be police on site. You’d never get past them.’
‘I know that. I just want to see where it is.’
‘I suppose I could take you to Cherry Ashton,’ said Libby doubtfully. ‘There’s a pub there. We could have lunch.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Rosie, sounding more cheerful. ‘I’d like that. Will you ask Fran?’
‘If you like. Then she could pick you up. She’s nearer you than I am.’
Libby looked at the clock and called Fran.
‘I know it’s a bit much,’ she said, ‘and we’ll have seen more than enough of each other, but I don’t know that I could cope with Rosie on her own, and she’s your friend more than mine, anyway.’
‘Hardly a friend,’ said Fran. ‘She’s my writing tutor. But OK. I’ll give her a ring and tell her what time I’ll pick her up.’
‘If we’re going to that pub for lunch, make it about midday. We can meet there.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘I can’t remember, but it’s on the crossroads. If you go to Heronsbourne, take the road towards Steeple Mount and Steeple Cross, you’ll find a turning to your left to Cherry Ashton. Then there’s a crossroads with a pub on the corner. That’s it.’
‘Twelve o’clock then,’ said Fran, and rang off.
Libby showered and dressed, rang Ben to tell him what was happening and to ask if he wanted to go The Pink Geranium for dinner.
‘Again?’ he said.
Libby sighed. ‘All right, the pub, then.’
‘What you mean is, you don’t want to cook tonight.’
‘I could get fish and chips in Nethergate.’
‘You’ll be nowhere near Nethergate and they’d be cold before you got home,’ said Ben. ‘We’ll go to Harry’s.’
The pub turned out to be called The Ashton Arms, and had an improbable looking coat of arms painted on its swinging inn sign. Libby parked behind the pub, reflecting on how few swinging signs there were left. Something to do with health and safety, obviously.
Rosie and Fran appeared to be the only customers, sitting in a window seat with cups before them.
‘We decided on coffee rather than alcohol,’ said Fran. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Depends,’ said Libby. ‘Not if we’re going up to have a look before we eat.’
‘Oh, yes, let’s,’ said Rosie and drank the remainder of her coffee in a hurry.
‘Wait for me,’ said Fran. ‘I’m not going to give myself indigestion for anyone.’
Libby sat down and inspected the rather gloomy interior. It looked more like a town pub than one in a fairly isolated village. There was a lot of dark wood and red leatherette (Libby had a suspicion it might be Rexine), and a highly polished bar, behind which rows of optics were reflected in a mirror.
‘George at The Red Lion said they did good food here,’ she said. ‘I can’t even see a barman, let alone a menu.’
‘There is one. Well, a bar-woman, actually. Very central casting,’ said Rosie. ‘A lot of blonde hair and a cantilevered bust.’
Libby giggled. ‘Can’t wait.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Fran, putting her cup down. ‘Let’s go if we’re going.’
They walked up the lane leading to the barn. Ahead, they could see the blue-and-white police tape fluttering, and two large white vans parked at the side of the road.
‘See? I said we’d never get near it,’ said Libby.
‘Near enough,’ muttered Rosie.
Libby sighed and turned her attention to the cottages that lined the lane on the left-hand side. It was in one of these that Mr Vindari lived, although they looked rather small for someone like him, there was a coach house and carriage arch that looked as though it led to a courtyard and possibly a big house, and here was the church.
‘It’s really quite nice,’ said Rosie. ‘I wonder what’s down there?’ She pointed to the archway.
‘I don’t know. I think this terrace is called Ashton Terrace.’ Libby peered at an overgrown sign near the carriage arch. ‘I think that says Ashton Court.’
‘I suppose all these people will have been questioned,’ said Fran. ‘Ian will have set up a house-to-house as soon as the bodies were discovered.’
Rosie shuddered and Fran looked at her apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but you wanted to come.’
‘I know,’ said Rosie.
They were much nearer now, and sure enough, there were two large uniformed policemen in yellow high-visibility jackets standing either side of the bank Libby and Fran had climbed a few days ago. They bent basilisk stares on the three women, who stopped.
‘I don’t think we’d better go any further,’ muttered Libby. ‘Can you see the barn, Rosie?’
Rosie nodded, her face white. ‘What do you suppose they’re doing inside?’ she whispered.
‘Taking soil samples and everything else they can take samples of, I expect,’ said Libby, guessing that the bodies had probably been removed by now. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Ah, Mrs Sarjeant, isn’t it?’
Mr Vindari had come up silently behind them. He looked older, thought Libby. Probably the knowledge that you’d lived almost next door to a murderer’s graveyard would do that to a person. Also, he wasn’t smiling.
‘I imagine this has something to do with you?’ he said, holding Libby’s gaze.
‘What do you mean?’ said Libby.
‘The police coming here and disturbing us.’ He sounded angry now.
‘It’s nothing at all to do with Mrs Sarjeant,’ said Rosie in a clear voice, stepping forward and confronting him. ‘This happens to be my property.’
That’s torn it, thought Libby.
‘Your property?’ Mr Vindari looked shocked. ‘But – I thought -’ He turned back to Libby. ‘So you did know. You said the property was to be sold. But not this property surely? You said the White Lodge estate.’
‘If you remember, I said we were trying to find out if this was part of the White Lodge estate. It is.’
‘And it is to be sold?’ He turned back to Rosie.
‘When the police have finished with it,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m sorry if you’ve been put to any inconvenience by the police presence, but it really isn’t my fault, you know. Or Mrs Sarjeant’s.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Mr Vindari was recovering some of his urbanity. ‘But why did the police come looking after Mrs Sarjeant’s visit?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not up to us to tell,’ said Fran. ‘Did the police tell you anything when they came to question you?’
‘Question me?’ He looked outraged.
‘In the house-to-house enquiries,’ said Fran.
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Mr Vindari took a step back. ‘No, I haven’t seen them yet. My wife answered their questions when they first came to the door. I was out.’
‘They’ll be back,’ said Libby cheerfully. ‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Vindari. They go over and over things time and time again. Now we’re going to try the food at your village pub.’
He bowed. ‘I believe it is rather good, for pub food.’
‘Not as good as yours,’ said Libby. ‘We went to your Canterbury restaurant the other night. Your son was most hospitable.’
The dark face was split by a startling white smile. ‘I’m delighted. I hope you will come again.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Fran. ‘We shall go to the Nethergate one over the weekend. We’ve been there before.’
‘I am pleased.’ He bowed again. ‘And I apologise about my – er – my,’ he looked from side to side as if searching for inspiration. ‘My attitude,’ he concluded triumphantly.
‘Please don’t,’ said Rosie. ‘Murder always upsets people.’
‘Murder?’ Mr Vindari looked as though he had been turned to stone.
‘Well, of course,’ said Libby. ‘Why else would there be all those police up there?’
‘I – we – thought it was perhaps -’ he looked round again and lowered his voice, ‘drugs.’
Fran smiled. ‘So did we,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ Mr Vindari looked as if he would start asking more questions, and Libby decided it was time to make a move.
‘Sorry to disturb you again, Mr Vindari,’ she said, ‘but we must be off if we’re to have lunch and get back in time. Lovely village you live in, by the way.’
‘In time for what?’ asked Fran as Libby hurried back down the lane.
‘I don’t know, anything. He was just about to start asking how we knew as much as we did and I didn’t want to get involved. Is he still watching us?’
‘No one’s going to turn round and look,’ said Rosie. ‘Either he’s watching us, or he’s trying to see into the barn.’
‘Do you suppose there’ll be anyone in the pub who knows anything about the investigation? Or the barn?’ asked Libby.
‘I doubt it. It’ll just be a load of speculation,’ said Fran.
But, when Libby asked the cantilevered barmaid about the police presence up the road, she was surprised to be answered by a voice from the other end of the bar.
‘They’ve been digging inside it.’
‘Oh?’ The three women turned to face the voice. It belonged to a large man sitting on a bar stool. He wore a long green caped wax coat, and before him on the bar lay a hat of the same material. His white hair was brushed back from a high forehead and a small, neat moustache and beard surrounded a small mouth.
‘I can see from the top floor of my place,’ he went on.
‘The Colonel lives at Ashton Court, see,’ said the barmaid, placing three more coffee cups on the bar with a menu.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Bren, stop calling me the colonel,’ he said. ‘But yes, I live at Ashton Court.’ He looked from one to another of them. ‘You don’t exactly look like tourists. You’re not press, are you?’
Rosie opened her mouth and Fran and Libby spoke together.
‘Of course not!’
‘We were out for a walk.’
‘A drive,’ corrected Libby. ‘I’m afraid we were just nosy.’
She smiled and shepherded the other two back to the table in the window.
‘Why wouldn’t you let me say anything?’ asked Rosie.
‘Because we don’t really want anyone round here knowing you own the place,’ said Fran in a low voice.
‘In case someone round here is at the bottom of these murders,’ said Libby. ‘You shouldn’t have told Mr Vindari.’
‘But he seemed nice, I thought. Just upset by the police activity.’
‘I’m sure, but we ought to keep it quiet as far as we can,’ said Libby.
‘But I don’t see why?’ said Rosie.
‘Because,’ said Libby wearily, ‘you could be in danger.’