‘Yes.’
Libby shrugged. ‘Oh, well. I’m not saying you didn’t make the right choice, but he is very attractive. And sort of – I dunno – dominant.’
‘Domineering,’ said Fran, opening her car door. ‘And don’t you start fantasising about him.’
Libby was indignant. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘No.’ Fran didn’t sound convinced. ‘You’ve been a bit ambivalent about him ever since he told you off about the Morris Dancers last year.’
‘That is a very confusing statement,’ said Libby, going to her own car. ‘He assumed I was grubbing around in his murder investigation and told me to stay out of it, as usual. That’s all.’
‘He does it every time,’ sighed Fran. ‘And then asks us back in.’
‘Predictable, isn’t he?’ Libby got into her car. ‘Let me know if you hear from him before I do.’
Chapter Ten
IT WASN’T UNTIL THE next day that Fran rang Libby.
‘Ian just called. He’s going to see Rosie.’
‘Is that all he had to say?’ Libby was frustrated. She’d called Fran at least three times the previous day, finally earning herself an embarrassing telling off. ‘Nothing about Andrew? The body? The music?’
‘No. I don’t think he wanted to talk about any of it, but called me out of courtesy.’
‘For her address?’
‘No. He already had that. He’s a policeman.’
‘Well, I do call that ungrateful,’ said Libby, sitting down on the staircase.
‘You said that yesterday. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it.’
‘I bet he called you because he knew I’d ask questions.’
‘I expect so,’ said Fran. ‘You’ll just have to contain your soul in patience.’
Libby switched off the phone and, resting her chin on her hand, thought. She had nothing to do, unless she did some more to the painting sitting on the easel in the conservatory. The house had been cleaned and tidied for Hetty and Greg’s visit on Sunday, and there was a stew in the slow cooker, in case something White Lodge-related had come up and she’d forgotten about dinner again.
But now there was nothing. She stood up and went through to the kitchen. Never before had she and Fran started an investigation and been shut out so quickly, although there had been occasions where she herself had tried not to continue. But, somehow, that never happened.
She reviewed her options. She could go and visit Adam at Creekmarsh, as she knew Lewis Osbourne-Walker was there. And his mother, Edie, would enjoy a chat. Or she could go and see Flo Carpenter and Lenny, Ben’s uncle, in their bungalow in Maltby Close. It was getting on for lunch time, so Harry would be busy in the restaurant, but she could drive down to Nethergate and bully Fran. She made a face. No, that wouldn’t do. Fran had already got cross with her yesterday.
Rosie. She stopped dead in the middle of filling the kettle. She could go and see Rosie. No need to say she knew Ian was going too. But, on the other hand, Rosie was Fran’s friend and it might seem a little insensitive to go without telling her first. Or even phoning Rosie first, come to that. Libby’s friends were used to her dropping in unannounced, and for the most part put up with it, but you couldn’t really do it to someone you’d only just met. She sighed heavily and put the kettle on the Rayburn.
There was always the internet. She went into the sitting room and woke up the laptop. “TB” she typed into the search engine. Predictably, it returned over a hundred million references. It was, however, more interesting than she’d thought, especially when she found out that the disease was far more widespread today than she’d imagined. She became engrossed in reading a piece about the incidence in Africa until the phone rang and alerted her to the fact that the kettle was steaming furiously on the Rayburn.
‘Hello?’ She moved the kettle off the hotplate.
‘The body wasn’t new,’ said Fran.
‘What?’
‘Ian just called. Apparently, the grave had just been cleared. Someone had been doing a bit of gardening.’
‘Oh.’ Libby sat on the kitchen table. ‘What a bummer.’
‘That’s not the attitude, Lib. It’s good that there isn’t a murder victim in there.’
Libby sighed. ‘I suppose so. Did Ian say how old the body was, or what it died of?’
‘No, I gather they haven’t got all the forensics yet, but it was very obvious that it was old.’
‘Well, we’ve had old before, haven’t we? The bones at Creekmarsh. There was a lot of doubt about them. Oh – and I’ve just thought. How did whoever cleared the grave know it was there?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe Ian will tell us, but I think he was a bit cross at having ordered the exhumation and it turning out not to be necessary.’
Libby sighed again. ‘Don’t tell me. He’s blaming us. Or, specifically, me.’
‘He just sounded irritated. He was off to see Rosie.’
‘We could gatecrash,’ said Libby hopefully.
‘No, we couldn’t. Just wait and see. If we haven’t heard by tomorrow we’ll give him a ring.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Libby squeaked. ‘I can’t wait until tomorrow.’
‘Oh, Libby, for goodness’ sake. It’s nothing to do with us, now. Leave it alone.’
Libby moved the kettle back on to the Rayburn and warmed the brown teapot. Now she really was at a loss.
Who could she talk to about this? Fran was obviously not in the mood. All the objections she had thought of earlier were still in place, although, she thought, brightening, the option of Adam and Creekmarsh was still open. She poured a cup of tea and rang Adam.
‘I’m not there, Mum,’ he said. ‘Neither’s Lewis. They’ve gone back to London and Mog’s decided we have to go and do some plant sourcing today. We’re in Surrey.’
‘Oh.’ Libby felt ridiculously cheated. ‘All right. I’ll see you during the week at the caff.’
Next she rang Flo Carpenter. Flo had been useful several times in Libby’s and Fran’s investigations, having lived in Steeple Martin almost since she came there as a young hop picker during the war. She had ended up marrying farmer Frank Carpenter at the same time that Ben’s mother Hetty had married Greg, the son of the squire. It always made Libby smile to think of East Ender Hetty as Lady of the Manor. It must have been difficult for both Hetty and Greg facing the prejudices of both their social classes, but Hetty had done it. Flo hadn’t faced quite the same problems as there was less of a class distinction between her and Frank, and, luckily, she’d been there to support Hetty. Both women were strong examples of the redoubtable Londoner who had survived poverty, deprivation and the war, but Libby preferred to talk to Flo about the past as Hetty and Greg had been at the centre of a family scandal and murder, and Libby was wary of triggering the memories.
‘Yeah, you pop round, gal. Len’s just popped down the pub so I’m on me own. Want a bit of dinner?’
‘No, thanks, Flo, I’ve just had a sandwich.’ Libby knew that “dinner” to Flo was what you had at lunchtime and was likely to be substantial.
‘You driving anywhere?’
‘No.’ Libby wasn’t surprised at this question and knew why it had been asked.
‘Good. I’ll open a bottle of the Merlot. You liked that, didn’t you?’
Frank Carpenter had “kept a good cellar”, and Flo had learnt from him. Long before wine was an everyday tipple in practically every household in Britain, Flo was developing her palate.
‘Lovely. Thanks, Flo. I’ll see you in about ten minutes.’
Maltby Close was the little lane leading to the church. An existing barn had been converted into a comfortable communal sitting/dining room and the remainder into a one-storey cottage, where Flo and Lenny lived. Several more new cottages had been built, all for local residents over sixty. They were owned, not rented, and each paid a maintenance charge for the upkeep and the services of a non-resident warden. Libby arrived to find the door standing open and Flo, cigarette hanging from her mouth and her eyes squinting through the smoke, picking weeds from a window box.
