'Mid eighteen hundreds. About 1848, I think.'

'Hmm,' said Libby. 'That was when the church was rebuilt.'

'Has that got anything to do with it?'

'I don't know. I'm thinking.'

'Be careful,' said Fran.

'Can you take any notes about that strong room? Or copy the pages? And would there be anything about the pub?'

'The pub?'

'The Fox, opposite the turning towards the house. On the history site I found, it said it used to be connected to the church and the house before it was rebuilt.'

'I'll go and try. You carry on playing with the Internet. I'll call you when I've finished.'

Libby laughed. 'What are we like?' she said. 'We're not supposed to be doing this.'

'I know.' Fran sighed. 'I just can't seem to help it.'

Libby returned to the computer and searched for The Fox. Luckily, it had its own website, with a good sprinkling of interior photographs and a history page, which actually mentioned the "secret pa.s.sage". The writer had indulged his or her love of romance by embroidering the story with tales of reckless smugglers, which wasn't altogether unlikely, thought Libby, given that Creekmarsh had such excellent masked access from the river via the inlet. Which brought her back to Cindy and the reason Fran had embarked on this search.

However, The Fox claimed to have no knowledge of the continued existence of the pa.s.sage, and although there was a very limited website for the little church, it made no reference to anything secret: pa.s.sage, tunnel or otherwise.

Fran phoned a little late and said she'd been allowed to make copies of relevant pages, but there was nothing else in the library except a small poster advertising The Fox.

'Shall we go and have a look?' asked Libby. 'We could go to The Fox for lunch.'

'OK, I'll meet you there in what? Half an hour?'

'You're keen,' said Libby, and switching off, went upstairs to put on something respectable before calling Ben to ask once more for the loan of the Land Rover.

The Fox, on the bend of the road opposite the lane to Creekmarsh and the church, was a two-storey, cream-washed building under a red-tiled roof, with two single-storey additions, one at each end. Window boxes planted with pelargoniums and petunias hung under the windows and a chalkboard apparently held aloft by a beaming chef announced daily specials. Libby parked the Land Rover next to Fran's little car in the car park behind the pub, and found Fran in the garden.

'Have you ordered?'

'No,' said Fran, squinting up into the sun. 'I thought I'd wait for you.' She stood up and led the way inside.

There hadn't been too much tarting up, thought Libby; no glittering horse bra.s.ses or tables with beaten bra.s.s tops, and at the end of the bar were copies of several daily papers. They ordered two mineral waters and two ham salads and Libby smiled confidingly at the woman behind the counter.

'We hear there's a secret pa.s.sage here?' she said.

The woman shook her head and laughed. 'Oh, that's just on the website and in the brochure,' she said. 'My Frank got a bit overexcited about that.'

'Oh?' Libby hitched herself onto a bar stool. 'He didn't make it up?'

'Oh, no,' said the woman. 'There was a tunnel, apparently, went to the church and then on to the big house, but it was blocked off when this place was rebuilt.'

'What a pity,' said Libby. 'When was that? It looks old.'

'Same time as the church, we think. 1849, '50. Something like that.'

'Smugglers?' asked Fran.

'Yeah, definitely. 'Course, by that time there weren't many left, it was all through those old wars it went on.'

'Brandy for the Parson,' said Libby.

'Baccy for the Clerk,' added Fran.

'Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,' they chanted together. The landlady stared at them in surprise.

'Rudyard Kipling's 'Smuggler's Song',' said Libby. 'I bet your Frank's heard of it. Very famous. Otherwise known as Watch The Wall My Darling, While The Gentlemen Go By.'

'Right.' The landlady looked doubtful. 'I'll ask him.'

'So he doesn't know where the tunnel might have come out?' asked Fran.

'In the cellars, I suppose. Makes sense, doesn't it?'

Libby and Fran looked at each other.

'Cellars?' said Libby.

'Are they still there?' said Fran.

'Well, of course they are!' The landlady laughed. 'All pubs have cellars. Don't suppose they're the same as they were a coupla hundred years ago, though.'

'No,' said Libby, disappointed.

'Why are you so interested?' The landlady turned and leant through a hatch, bringing back two plates of ham salad with a brief thanks to a disembodied voice from beyond.

'We read about it on the Internet,' said Fran, shooting Libby a warning glance.

'You're not tourists?' The woman frowned.

'No, I'm from Steeple Martin and Fran lives in Nethergate,' said Libby, unwrapping her knife and fork.

The landlady's brow cleared. 'Hang on,' she said, 'I know you! You're the lady who does the murders!'

Libby made a face and Fran blushed.

'You're the psychic lady, aren't you?' The landlady now looked delighted. 'Is this pa.s.sage something to do with ooh!' She put her hand over her mouth and her eyes widened. In the corner a group of locals looked over their shoulders with interest. 'That skeleton they found?' she continued in a whisper.

Fran sighed. 'No, I'm afraid it isn't,' she said. The landlady looked disappointed. 'It is for the owner of Creekmarsh, though,' Fran continued, lowering her voice. 'He thought he might be able to trace the pa.s.sage.'

'Fantastic!' The landlady's eyes were shining. 'I'll tell Frank the minute he gets back.'

'Is he away?' asked Libby, wondering what Fran was up to.

'Oh, he's just visiting an old mate of his who's in a home, bless him.'

'Oh, dear, I'm sorry,' said Libby.

'Yeah, it's a shame,' said the landlady. 'I never knew him, but he wasn't all that old. Alzheimer's, you know.'

Chapter Twenty-six.

IF THE LANDLADY NOTICED the frozen expressions on the faces in front of her, she gave no sign of it. Libby was the first to recover.

'Alzheimer's? That's terrible. An old friend, was he?'

'Yeah. Frank knew him before we met.' The landlady nodded at them cheerfully. 'I'll leave you to your salads. I'll tell Frank as soon as he gets back.'

'It couldn't be, could it?' whispered Libby, as they carried their plates back into the garden.

'I don't see how,' said Fran. 'It's just one of those coincidences that crop up all the time. After all, if this Frank knew where Gerald Shepherd was all the time when the hunt was on for him, and especially now with the discovery of the skeleton, he would have spoken up, wouldn't he?'

Libby nodded. 'And the wife isn't in the first flush of youth,' she said, through a mouthful of ham, 'so they must have been married for some time.'

'Which means the friend must date from years ago,' said Fran.

'But,' said Libby, pointing her fork, 'that doesn't mean it isn't Shepherd. Frank might have known him years ago, but only started to visit him when he got Alzheimer's.'

'I think we're making too much of it,' said Fran, squirting mayonnaise from a sachet onto her lettuce. 'It's coincidence, like I said.'

They finished their meals and loitered for as long as they decently could, but Frank declined to put in an appearance, and they were forced to leave, promising the landlady ('Call me Bren, everyone does') they would return.

Fran drove down the lane and parked next to the church.

'Will it be open, do you think?' asked Libby as they climbed out.

'I think they lock them these days, don't they?' said Fran. 'Vandalism.'

Libby went up to the door and checked. 'Yup,' she said. 'Locked.' They stood together in the porch and read the few notices; times of services, a couple of appeals and a poster advertising meetings of a local branch of the WI.

'Churchwarden's number, look,' said Fran. 'Perhaps we should ring him.'

'And perhaps we shouldn't,' said Libby. 'Come on, we can't go that far.'

'Shall we go down and see Adam, then?' Fran walked out of the porch and began to go round the church, peering at the bottom of the walls.

'We can if you like.' Libby watched her friend with amus.e.m.e.nt. 'You're not going to find anything here, you know,' she said.

'I know, I know.' Fran straightened up and pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. 'Shall we walk across to the house?'

'What are you actually looking for?' asked Libby, as they crossed the lane to the Creekmarsh drive.

'The opening of a pa.s.sage,' said Fran.

'But they will all have been closed up,' said Libby.

'What about the ice-house?' said Fran. 'I bet the tunnel to that will be somewhere in the kitchen area.'

'And the strong room? Did you find any more references to that?'

Fran shook her head. 'What would you keep in a strong room?'

'The dictionary says jewellery and valuables.'

'So it would be an ideal place for Tony West to hide any of Cindy's and Gerald's doc.u.ments.'

'Well, yes,' said Libby doubtfully, 'but we've searched the house and so have the police. They'd have found a secret room or a hidden pa.s.sage even if we didn't.'

'What about the unrestored part of the house?'

'The police would have searched that, too,' said Libby.

They continued towards the house in silence and found the big oak door open. Following sounds of clattering crockery, they went into the kitchen and found Mog and Adam making tea.

'Tea break,' said Adam cheerfully. 'Want some?'

'No thanks,' said Libby, pulling out a chair and sitting down. 'We've just had lunch at The Fox over the road.'

'Oh?' Mog looked interested. 'What's it like?'

'Average pub food. We had salads, so you can't really tell,' said Libby.

'But the ham was good,' said Fran, sitting beside Libby.

'Anyway, what are you doing here?' asked Adam. 'Lewis still isn't back.'

'I know,' said Libby, looking at Fran.

'I'm still interested,' she said, looking down at her hands clasped before her on the table.

'Even if the police aren't,' said Libby.

'Oh, they are,' said Adam. 'They've been here on and off all week. I think they're still looking for clues about Cindy.'