Free Murder in Steeple Martin by Lesley Cookman Page A

smiled at her. ‘But not for too long. Don’t worry, Libby, I won’t rush you.’ He bent forward and kissed her cheek. ‘See you tomorrow afternoon.’
    What do you mean, she wanted to yell after him. Does that mean you fancy me? But she didn’t say anything. Just watched him reverse up Allhallow’s Lane. Then she leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. The terrible thing was, she admitted, that she wanted to be rushed. Or was it just her desperate hormones? But if that was the case, why didn’t she feel the same with poor Stephen? And just when had she started to think of him as “poor” Stephen?
    Sunday dawned as bright and beautiful as Saturday, but by mid-day, the clouds had rolled in again and a steady drizzle was doing its best to dampen everybody’s spirits. Libby met Peter and Harry for a lunchtime drink before setting off for The Manor. Peter had borrowed a four-wheel-drive from somewhere and Ben was to take his and, in view of the weather, the cast members were not required to traipse through the fields, but to meet them back at the theatre for the indoor shots.
    Ben met them at the door.
    ‘You go ahead, I’ll bring Mum and Dad and the photographer. Dad’s not moving too well today.’
    Peter turned the vehicle round and set it at the field.
    ‘Bloody weather,’ he said.
    The huts looked dismal in the rain and Libby wondered how the hop pickers had felt, stuck out here when the weather was like this. They sat huddled inside, not speaking, until they saw the other vehicle approaching.
    Ben got out and went to open the rear door for his mother as the photographer jumped down from the other side.
    ‘No wonder he wanted to bring the photographer,’ said Harry, with a startled glance at Peter.
    Libby was horrified to find that she actually had a lump in her throat, and an extremely unpleasant feeling somewhere under her rib cage, as she watched the tall, slim, blonde female striding towards them, her large black nylon equipment bags slung effortlessly over her shoulder.
    ‘Hallo. Which one of you’s Peter? Nobby couldn’t make it, so he asked me to come instead. Vanessa Hargreaves – but just call me Van.’
    ‘Oh – er – yes. Delighted,’ said Peter, taking the proffered hand with a quick glance at Libby. ‘This is Harry, who helps us with – er – all sorts of things, and this is Libby Sarjeant – with a J – who is directing the play.’
    ‘Great. Are you a professional director?’ Call-me-Van was fishing out a microphone and fiddling with knobs and switches inside one of the black cases.
    ‘No,’ said Libby.
    ‘Yes. Well, she’s an ex-professional. Drama school trained.’ Harry hurried into the breach.
    ‘Oh, right. So now you’re into the old am-dram, eh?’
    A bitter little silence fell, while nobody looked at each other, and then Libby noticed Ben struggling alone with his three elderly relatives.
    ‘Hang on,’ she called, and sloshed through the mud towards them. ‘Here, Hetty, hang on to me. Lenny, you come the other side – Ben, can your father manage?’
    He turned a grateful face towards her and winked. Suddenly, she felt better.
    ‘Right, lovely.’ Van was bustling about the yard, oblivious to the mud and the rain in her leather jacket and huge boots. ‘So these are the people who the play is about? Have I got that right?’
    They all agreed that she’d got it right.
    ‘OK then – if we could have you all here – in this shed –’
    ‘It’s a hut.’ Hetty unclamped her lips for long enough to correct her. ‘A hoppers’ hut.’
    ‘Oh, right. Well, can you all get in there, then?’
    ‘Just Lenny and me.’ Hetty took charge. ‘Gregory was never in the huts. He can stay outside.’
    Libby was appalled at how grey and frail Gregory Wilde had become since she had last seen him. The skin on his face seemed so thin that you could almost see the skull beneath. He raised his peaked cap to her with an unsteady hand as Ben helped him to