Free Murder in Steeple Martin by Lesley Cookman Page B

stand by the doorway of the hut, while Hetty, dour as usual, stood inside next to Lenny, who was obviously enjoying himself.
    ‘OK, that’s lovely then, yes – one more – could you just move out a little bit – Hetty – is that it? And Lenny, put your arm round her, dear – that’s it, lovely – now, er, Mr – er –’
    ‘Wilde.’ Gregory drew himself up. ‘Gregory Wilde.’
    ‘Oh, yes, right, Mr Wilde. Could you sort of bend over a bit – perhaps look inside?’
    ‘I think that might be too much for my father,’ said Ben in a firm voice, coming forward to take his arm. ‘You’ve got one or two of him, haven’t you? I think that will be enough.’
    ‘Oh.’ Van looked nonplussed, as well she might, thought Libby. ‘But I really ought to bracket these a bit – the light, you know.’
    ‘Bracket?’ Everyone looked confused.
    ‘Hedging your bets,’ explained Peter. ‘They take different exposures to see which comes out best.’
    ‘Nevertheless, my father will go and sit inside, if you don’t mind.’ Ben led his father away, leaving Van to do the best she could with Hetty and Lenny.
    ‘So this is where you stayed, is it? Could we say this is the very hut?’
    ‘No. These weren’t built then. Our huts were knocked down after the war.’
    Lenny chuckled. ‘Hetty had ’em knocked down, didn’t you, gel? Never did like those huts, our Het.’
    ‘You be quiet, Lenny Fisher.’ Hetty pushed him out of the hut.
    ‘So where were the old huts, could we see?’
    ‘Nothing to see. Grassed over now.’
    ‘Oh, right. So – the murder. Hey, great, the readers love a murder. So where did that happen then?’
    Lenny dug Hetty in the ribs. ‘Down by the bridge, weren’t it, Het?’
    ‘That’s where the body was found.’ Hetty gave her brother a quelling look. But Lenny wasn’t to be quelled.
    ‘In the ditch, weren’t it, Het? Horrible, it was.’
    ‘Who found the body? You?’
    ‘Nah. Some of the kids. They used to come and look for tiddlers. Gor, they didn’t half holler.’ Lenny smiled reminiscently.
    ‘Can we see?’
    ‘Yes, we came across the bridge yesterday, so it’s quite safe.’ Peter gestured for her to follow him. ‘You’ve no need to come, Aunt Het, or you, Lenny.’
    ‘Oh, I’m coming. Wouldn’t miss this for the world. You staying here, Het?’
    Hetty didn’t bother to answer him, but turned and climbed unaided into the four-wheel-drive beside her husband.
    ‘You horrible old man,’ muttered Ben to his uncle as he came alongside Libby and took her arm. Lenny cackled.
    ‘Nice bit of skirt, though, in’t she? Lucky bugger having her riding beside yer. Little bit of gear shifting, eh?’
    ‘You really are disgusting,’ said Ben, but he was grinning as he helped Libby over the treacherous mud towards the bridge.
    ‘She is pretty.’ Libby gave him a sidelong glance.
    ‘Yes, she is. Why they have to wear those dreadful boots, though – and that hair.’
    Libby smiled to herself.
    ‘Here we are then.’ Peter presented the bridge with a flourish. ‘The famous murder spot.’
    ‘Now,’ said Van juggling with cameras and recorders once more. ‘Who was murdered?’
    ‘Joe Warburton. Tallyman,’ answered Lenny promptly.
    ‘What?’
    ‘He measured the hops.’
    ‘Oh, right.’ Van was clearly puzzled, but carried on gamely. ‘And he was where?’
    ‘Just down there.’
    Lenny leant forward at a dangerous angle to point and Libby and Ben grabbed an arm each.
    ‘Can I get a shot from the other side?’
    ‘Sure.’ Peter shrugged. ‘Here, I’ll help you with that.’
    Van trod delicately across the bridge, Peter following as bearer.
    ‘Pete!’ Harry’s scream took them all by surprise. ‘The bridge – careful – oh, my GOD.’
    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