Murder in the Blood (24 page)

A sense of duty persuaded her to carry on with the painting for Guy, and she had a sudden inspiration to do two small rather impressionistic views of Nethergate to see if they would also sell. This took her up to Saturday, when she and Ben had been invited to dinner at Coastguard Cottage. Fran had also invited Susannah and Emlyn and Jane and Terry, leaving Jane's mother in charge of Robbie and Imogen.

‘I'm glad the weather's held,' said Fran, opening the door.

‘Why?' Libby went past her into the living room, where Guy was busy opening bottles. ‘I mean, apart from the obvious that's it's nicer to have good weather rather than bad.'

‘Come and see,' said Fran, leading the way through the kitchen and out to her back yard, set against the cliffs.

‘Wow!'

Under a stylish gazebo sat a brand new outdoor dining set. Eight places were set, and Balzac sat up from one of the chairs and silently meowed a welcome.

‘I got the idea from all our outdoor dining in Turkey,' said Fran. ‘I know we don't get that many opportunities to eat outside in this country, but we also bought this.' She indicated a smart black firepit in the corner. ‘We're so enclosed here I think that'll keep us warm.'

‘It's fantastic, Fran!' Libby gave her friend a hug. ‘What a lovely idea.'

Guy joined them, handing glasses to Ben and Libby. ‘Fizz to christen the new outdoor room.'

When the other guests arrived, they were equally impressed. Fran produced her usual competent dinner, finishing with Libby's favourite Eton Mess, and Guy offered coffee and brandy.

‘That was lovely,' said Libby, leaning back in her chair and gazing into the glowing embers of the firepit. ‘I feel quite transported back to Turkey.'

‘Any more news on your murders?' asked Jane.

A small silence fell, then Libby pushed her chair back and stood up.

‘Oh, Guy – I forgot. I've got pictures. I'll pop out and get them from the car.'

Ben looked at her suspiciously and also stood up.

‘I'll get them,' he said. ‘Sit down.'

‘What did I say?' asked Jane.

‘We aren't talking about the murders, Jane,' said Fran. ‘We really don't want to think about them any more. We aren't involved.'

‘I'm sorry.'

In the darkness she couldn't tell, but Libby was sure colour had crept into Jane's cheeks. ‘You weren't to know,' she said. ‘I overreacted.

Ben reappeared with Libby's wrapped paintings. ‘I'll leave them in the sitting room, shall I?'

‘No, let's have a look now,' said Fran, ‘I expect the others would like to see them.'

The paintings were duly exclaimed over, and Guy approved the impressionistic experiments.

‘Libby, I'm truly sorry,' said Jane, under cover of the general conversation. ‘I didn't mean to upset you. It's just …'

‘I know, I'm usually off like a dog after a rabbit. But that's why this is so frustrating. There's absolutely nothing we can do and nothing we can find out, so I've been resolutely putting it out of my mind. Hence the paintings. Had to take my mind of it somehow.'

‘So I can't ask you any questions?'

‘I haven't got any answers,' said Libby, with a grimace.

‘What about that woman's mother? Didn't you go and see her?'

‘Carol Oxford? Yes, but she didn't know anything. Actually she gave me the keys to the house until I had to hand them over to the police.'

‘The police? Why?'

‘It wasn't Mrs Oxford's house. It belonged to her daughter and was let out. Although it currently isn't. And,' said Libby, and paused.

‘And what?' prompted Jane.

‘Did you know who Carol Oxford was? And her daughter?'

‘No.' Jane looked bewildered. ‘Should I have done?'

‘Colonel Weston's ex-wife and daughter.'

‘Colonel – oh, my God!'

‘Exactly.' Libby nodded and looked for a bottle to top up her wineglass. ‘Nothing to do with the Turkish business, but what a coincidence, eh?'

Jane was frowning into the darkness. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes. Ian Connell's on the case now, and it was him I handed the keys over to. He'd have turned up any sort of connection by now.'

‘Oh, yes, I suppose he would.' Jane's expression cleared. ‘It was just that – well, I thought I remembered something, that's all.'

‘All Weston's dirty doings came under the microscope at the time of his arrest,' said Libby. ‘It would have come out.'

‘What would, though?' asked Jane.

‘What would?' Libby realised belatedly that Jane knew nothing about the suspected trafficking, and explained, as briefly as she could.

‘Ah, I see. And of course because of the whole immigrant situation it's all blown up in their faces, is that the theory?'

‘I honestly don't know, Jane. All I know is that we've been putting together a whole heap of buildings with straw. If you've heard anything about trafficking over the last few years – to this coast, particularly – you ought to let Ian know.'

‘I'd let you know first,' said Jane. She grinned and patted Libby's arm. ‘Pass the bottle.'

When the other guests had gone, Ben and Libby, who were staying the night, retreated to the sitting room with Fran and Guy.

‘What were you and Jane talking about?' asked Fran.

‘She apologised again. So did I. I completely overreacted. I've been trying so hard to put it all out of my mind.'

‘I didn't help by recreating a Turkish restaurant, did I?' said Fran with a smile.

‘That didn't occur to me,' said Libby. ‘At least you didn't do the food.'

‘I don't think I could,' said Fran. ‘Plain English, that's me.'

‘Not so much of the plain,' said Guy, coming to sit beside his wife. ‘That's accusing me of bad taste.' He looked across at Libby. ‘The paintings really are rather good, Lib. I love the new style.'

Libby felt herself go pink with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Guy. It happened because I was doing something quickly for Patti. I didn't know I could paint like that.'

‘Well you can knock out as many as you like. I guarantee they'll sell.'

‘I might even stop painting the view from your window,' said Libby, turning to look at it.

‘That window,' said Fran. ‘It has a lot to answer for.'

They all nodded solemnly. The window of Coastguard Cottage had figured largely in the second adventure they'd all had together.

‘Risking returning to the most avoided subject of the day,' said Ben, ‘I wonder if there's been any more progress in the case?'

Libby sighed. ‘We're not likely to know, now, are we?'

Unusually, Libby and Ben weren't going to Hetty for the traditional roast that Sunday, as she had been invited to Flo's cottage instead. So Sunday was free.

‘You're welcome to hang about here,' said Fran at breakfast.

‘No, I think we'll do something different,' said Ben. ‘We could go out for the day.'

Libby looked dubious. ‘I remember what happened last time we went out for the day on a Sunday.'

‘Nothing like that's going to happen this time,' said Ben. ‘You aren't in the middle of an investigation, are you?'

‘No,' said Libby.

Ben shook his head. ‘Look, Lib. It isn't the end of the world, even though it was for the victims. You're behaving like a child deprived of its favourite toy. Come on, snap out of it.'

‘Ben's right, Lib,' said Guy. ‘I'll tell you what – there's a great exhibition of Eric Ravilious paintings at the Dulwich Gallery in London. Why don't you go up and see that?'

‘Who's Ravilious?' asked Ben.

‘He was largely responsible for the revival of English watercolour painting,' said Guy. ‘Libby's forerunner, if you like.'

Libby looked interested. ‘Nothing like as good as Ravilious, but I love his work. I know it's lovely to have it exhibited in London, but shouldn't it be at the Towner in Eastbourne? That's his home county, after all?'

‘A wider audience, I expect,' said Ben. ‘It's a great idea, Guy. Come on, Lib. We can get the train to Victoria and back to West Dulwich from there.'

‘You know Dulwich?' said Fran. ‘I lived not far from there.'

‘So did I, once,' said Ben. ‘Come on, Lib. Would you like to come with us, Fran? I know Guy won't because of the shop.'

‘No, I'll stay with Guy,' said Fran. ‘You two have a day out on your own.'

Persuaded, and even quite excited, Libby was ready in time for Ben to drive to Nethergate station for the next London train. For a change, there were no ‘works on the line' involving tedious bus journeys through the Kent countryside, and they reached Victoria just before midday.

‘Pity our train doesn't stop at West Dulwich,' said Libby as they struggled through the crowds towards the platform for the suburban line. ‘We actually pass the gallery and the school, don't we?'

But Ben wasn't listening.

‘I know I must be dreaming or hallucinating,' he said, ‘but look over there. Next to the barrier we've just come through.'

Libby's mouth fell open. ‘Walter Roberts!'

Chapter Twenty-eight

‘No, Lib!' Ben caught hold of Libby's arm as she surged back the way they had come.

‘Why not?' Libby turned an indignant face to her beloved. ‘What's he doing here? They live up north.'

‘He's entitled to be in London, you know. Perhaps they're visiting. Going to the theatre?'

‘He's getting on our train.' Libby peered through the crowd. ‘That means he's going to Canterbury, at least.'

Ben tried to peer too. ‘And he's alone.'

‘And he doesn't look like Walter.' Libby was frowning. ‘I suppose it is him?'

‘You mean his clothes? Well, this is London, not Erzugan,' said Ben.

‘But he looked smart. Different.'

‘I suppose I shouldn't suggest it, but perhaps he has a –'

‘Lady friend?' interposed Libby. ‘All the way down here?'

‘Well, whatever the answer is, we are not going back on that train just to find out.' Ben turned her towards the platform where the West Dulwich train waited.

‘No, I know.' Libby sighed and allowed herself to be led away.

On the train, she sent a text to Fran.
Walter Roberts spotted at Victoria getting the Canterbury train
.

Did you speak to him?

No. Ben wouldn't let me.

Sensible.

Libby sighed again and put the phone away.

The gallery, one of the most beautiful, in Libby's opinion, was attached to Dulwich College, the famous independent school for boys.

‘Do you know,' whispered Libby, as they entered, ‘I don't even know where you went to school.'

Ben shot her an amused look. ‘Not here,' he said.

‘Oh?'

‘Canterbury. And no – proper state grammar schoolboy, me. What about you?'

‘London. Girls' grammar school. Actually we used to play the James Allen School at netball and hockey.'

‘James Allen?'

‘The sister school of Dulwich,' explained Libby. ‘Now, come on, let's look at these pictures.'

Two hours later, they emerged, blinking into the sunshine.

‘Tea?' suggested Ben.

‘Let's get back to Victoria,' said Libby. ‘We can pick something up there.'

‘A pre-packed sandwich?' Ben sighed. ‘We didn't have any lunch, you know.'

‘I'll treat you to a curry tonight,' said Libby. ‘We can go to that one in Nethergate when we pick up the car.'

‘The Golden Spice? Why not? We haven't been since it's been under new management.' Ben cheered up. ‘Come on then, there's a train in five minutes.'

The ubiquitous sandwich duly picked up at Victoria station, they boarded the next train back to Canterbury and Libby checked her phone.

‘Well?' asked Ben.

‘Nothing. Eat your sandwich.'

Despite the slideshow of Ravilious images scrolling through her mind, Libby couldn't help returning to the puzzle of Walter Roberts and why he should be in Kent.

‘I suppose,' she said suddenly to Ben, ‘he might have been going somewhere else in Kent. He could have been changing at Chatham or Rochester. Or Sittingbourne.'

‘Or just getting off at Bromley South,' said Ben. ‘If we're talking about Walter Roberts, that is.'

‘But if he's got connections in Kent, why didn't Betty tell us?'

‘I don't know, Lib. Perhaps she didn't think it was relevant.'

‘Or perhaps she doesn't know,' said Libby.

‘You're making mysteries out of molehills again,' said Ben. ‘Stop it.'

Libby sighed and turned to look out of the window at the familiar countryside speeding past.

The Golden Spice had only just opened its doors when they arrived. It had been redecorated in a much more European way, and the menu was slightly different, with fewer choices, which Libby appreciated as she always had trouble making up her mind. It also had a long glass window into the kitchen area.

‘Do you suppose any of them are still here from before?' she whispered to Ben.

‘Any what?'

Libby jerked her head towards the kitchen.

‘I shouldn't think so.' Ben leant back in his chair. ‘This place has got to be on its best behaviour after the last owners. Stop seeing monsters under the beds.'

‘Hmm.' Libby smiled sweetly up at the young man who arrived to take their orders and scared him into dropping his notebook.

‘Do you think,' she said some time later, wiping her plate clean with a last remnant of naan, ‘we ought to pop in and see Fran and Guy before we go home?'

‘No, I don't,' said Ben firmly. ‘Leave them in peace. You only want to talk about the murders and Walter Roberts, and I don't want my day spoiled. Neither will Guy, even if Fran doesn't mind.'