Murder Most Fowl
Lesley Cookman
ISBN: 9781786156037
This edition published by Accent Press 2017
The right of Lesley Cookman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Octavo House, West Bute Street, Cardiff CF10 5LJ
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
The title and the turkeys both came, once again, from my son Miles, who now thinks he ought to have a contract. The information about raising turkeys from his friend Jim the butcher, another of our local foodie friends and information about Rural Crime from various farming friends.
Thank you to Susan Alison, who originally created the map of Steeple Martin which contains a tiny sketch of a collie. He has finally appeared in this story. Thank you for the loan of Jeff-dog, Susan. And God Bless Us, Every One!
Murder Most Fowl
Libby Sarjeant scowled round the auditorium of the Oast Theatre.
‘Where IS Bob? Does anyone know?’
‘Probably couldn’t get away from the shop,’ said a muffled voice from backstage.
‘At this time of night?’ Libby looked at her watch.
‘It is nearly Christmas, Lib.’ Peter Parker wandered across the stage with an armful of material.
‘And nearly panto time,’ snapped Libby.
Peter turned and widened his eyes at her. ‘Come, come, old trout! You can’t start moaning at people who have to work at other things, can you? Bob’s a butcher – he’s bound to have extra business just now.’
‘Oh, I suppose so.’ Libby heaved a huge sigh and sank down on the edge of the stage. ‘I wish we could afford to pay everybody.’
‘Even if we could,’ said Peter, coming over to sit beside her, ‘Bob would still have Christmas orders to fill. People would soon lose confidence in him if he stopped providing them with their flash birds and joints of beef.’
‘I know. Hetty relies on him for her beautiful bronze bird each year.’ Libby looked across at her partner, Ben Wilde. ‘I was just saying how your mum relies on Bob for her turkey.’
Ben removed a nail from his mouth. ‘And her ham. Not to mention our joint every week.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Peter, climbing elegantly to his feet and holding a hand out to help Libby, less elegantly, to hers.
Libby’s phone began to warble in her pocket.
‘Speak of the devil,’ she muttered. ‘Hello, Bob?’
‘Libby – I’m really sorry, but my turkeys have been stolen.’
‘Eh?’ Libby frowned. ‘Your turkeys?’
Bob sounded as though he was doing his best not to burst into tears. ‘Ours – all my special orders. All the Norfolk Bronzes.’
‘I thought they weren’t ready yet,’ said Libby, still perplexed.
‘They’ve been stolen from the farmer!’ wailed Bob.
Libby shook her head at Ben and Peter, who were watching her, looking as puzzled as she felt.
‘So I’m talking to the police. And then I’ve got to try and source some more – although that’ll probably be impossible.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘So you won’t be here…’
‘I can’t! I’ll try and let you know tomorrow.’
And the line went dead.
‘His turkeys have been stolen,’ she told the others.
‘Oh, no!’ Both Ben and Peter looked horrified.
‘From the farmer, he said. I thought they weren’t ready yet? And why is it such a problem?’
‘You know how much those turkeys are, don’t you?’ said Peter.
‘Expensive?’ hazarded Libby.
‘Upwards of £70,’ said Ben. ‘And Bob’s are specially ordered. Mum has a ten-kilo bird.’
‘And that’s £70?’ gasped Libby.
Peter laughed. ‘Oh, no! That’s about £120.’
‘What?’ Libby almost screeched.
‘So if Bob has ten customers who’ve all ordered specific sizes, you’re talking a lot of money.’
‘But he can get more, can’t he?’
Ben and Peter exchanged amused glances.
‘You don’t know much about rearing turkeys, do you, dear heart?’ said Peter. ‘Explain to her, Ben.’
‘The butcher – or the customer themselves – will order a specific size. The breeder will take delivery of his poults – that’s baby turkeys – back in the summer, and bring them on. They’re monitored very carefully for weight, so that by the time they’re slaughtered they will all be exactly the right sizes. The large farmers who supply supermarkets have to have hundreds of the same size, but it’s tricky doing an estimate on that scale. What Bob does is take orders very early to pass on to his breeder, and then he’s got exactly the right number. He has a number of more run-of-the-mill turkeys for customers who don’t want to pay that sort of money, but these are special.’
‘I can see that.’ Libby sat down on the edge of the stage again. ‘I didn’t realise it was so scientific and precise. So he can’t order exactly the right sizes from anywhere else?’
Peter shook his head. ‘It’s too late.’
‘So we won’t get our turkey this year?’
‘We’ll have to have one of the also-rans,’ said Ben.
‘He said he’s going to try and source some more, but he’s talking to the police at the moment.’ Libby sighed. ‘I’m really sorry for him, but…’
‘He won’t let it interfere,’ said Peter. ‘Now come on. We can do something without him, can’t we? Ben or I can read in for him.’
After rehearsal, Libby rang Bob.
‘Any news?’
Bob sighed heavily. ‘Reported to the police and the NRCN, but -’
‘What’s the NRCN?’
‘National Rural Crime Network. Ben knows all about it.’
‘I expect he does. He knew all about raising turkeys. So did Pete.’
‘Farming family,’ said Bob. ‘Rural crime’s such a problem these days.’
‘Oh,’ said Libby, feeling rather ashamed of herself for not knowing. ‘So what’s happened?’
‘The breeder had already reported it, and the police have been round, but it’s really only poaching – although the animals were already dead.’
‘Doesn’t that make it theft instead?’ asked Libby.
‘I suppose it does. Anyway, there doesn’t seem a lot anybody can do. The rural patrols are run off their feet at the moment what with all the Christmas tree thefts as well.’
‘Christmas tree thefts?’ squeaked Libby.
‘Yes, loads. Joe and Nella up at Cattlegreen lost some last year.’
‘Golly. I didn’t realise,’ said Libby. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Bob sighed again. ‘Not your fault, is it, Lib? I’m just sorry that you won’t get your lovely Bronze this year. Anyway, sorry I let you down tonight.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Libby. ‘Ben read in for you. We’re going for a drink now. I don’t suppose you’ve got time to join us?’
‘Yes, I have.’ Bob immediately sounded more cheerful. ‘Too late to do anything else tonight. I’ll see you there.’
When they arrived, he was already waiting for them in a corner of the bar by the fireplace. Their favour
ite large round table was already taken, but Bob had commandeered the banquette seat in the alcove and they all managed to squash in.
‘Is there anything we can do?’ asked Peter, as he and Ben passed the drinks round. ‘Bob shrugged. ‘No, not really. Keep your ears open for any knock-offs, I suppose, but no one’s going to offer a veggie restaurant a turkey, are they?’
Peter was co-owner of The Pink Geranium, Steeple Martin’s vegetarian Mexican restaurant, of which his partner Harry was chef patron.
‘You’re right there,’ he said with a grin.
‘And they won’t offer us one, either,’ said Ben.
‘What will they do with them, then?’ said Libby.
‘Markets – in towns, mainly. There are always people ready to buy cheap stuff,’ said Bob gloomily. ‘What you could do, though, is see if you can find anyone with any decent birds still available. I didn’t find anyone this evening, but we might stand a better chance tomorrow.’
Peter and Libby agreed they would both do some research in the morning. Ben would be in the estate office at the Manor and after lunch they had arranged to pick up their Christmas tree from Cattlegreen Nurseries.
‘Joe and Nella might have heard something,’ suggested Libby.
‘No – I spoke to them earlier.’ Bob shook his head. ‘But they’ve got their ears to the ground. And their Owen’s girlfriend’s tapped into a whole different network, isn’t she?’
‘Tessa? Yes, I suppose so, but not criminal.’
‘Her family, though? Weren’t they travellers, or something?’
‘Now, Bob,’ warned Libby, ‘don’t go falling into the trap of tarring all travellers with the same brush. Anyway, Tessa’s been living in a house for years now. Since young Davey was born, at least.’
‘It’s the poverty, though,’ Bob persisted. ‘That breeds crime.’
‘Yes, but not in this case. But we’ll ask, won’t we, Ben?’
By the time they arrived at Cattlegreen Nurseries on Saturday afternoon, Libby had spent a good couple of hours on the phone trying to track down available turkeys for Hetty, with little success. The best option appeared to be the supermarkets, which Libby was loath to use, although Bob had told her that it was fine, the large ones used reputable farmers and breeders – but again, it might be too late.
Owen, Joe and Nella’s large, good-natured son, met them as they got out of the estate’s Range Rover.
‘Hot chocolate?’ he offered. ‘Before we load up the tree?’
Owen always offered hot chocolate, his speciality, and Libby and Ben always accepted. In the office, Joe greeted them with a worried smile.
‘This turkey theft, now,’ he said, shifting papers off a chair for Libby. ‘Tip of the iceberg, it is.’
‘It is?’ Ben looked worried now. ‘What else has happened?’
‘Well, you know rural crime’s been on the increase the last few years? There’s new initiatives and such, and increased penalties, but there’s more and more of it. Only last week, farmer over Bishop’s Bottom way lost a load of sheep – all in lamb, too. And Bill George at Steeple Cross had two tractors pinched during the night on Thursday.’
‘What about you?’ asked Libby. ‘Lost any trees?’
‘Not this year. We put up electric fencing right round the plantation, and Owen and I take turns in patrolling. So far so good.’
‘Bit tiring for you,’ said Ben.
Joe shrugged. ‘Only a few weeks,’ he said. ‘Worth it.’
Owen appeared with the mugs of hot chocolate.
‘And how’s Tessa?’ asked Libby. ‘And young Davey and Kayley?’
‘They’re fine, Libby!’ His face growing as pink as his cold nose, he beamed and ducked his head. ‘We – um – I…’
‘Owen’s moving in with them,’ said Joe with a smile. ‘Me and Nella haven’t got the room. But we’ll all be together Christmas Day, won’t we, lad?’
‘That’s lovely, Owen – I’m so pleased.’ Libby beamed back.
‘So what’s being done about this rural crime wave, then, Joe?’ asked Ben.
‘Dunno, really. Police know, and they’ve got what they call a Green Routes Initiative where ARVs patrol rural routes at night. Don’t know how much they use that here in Kent, though – for the more remote parts of the country, I woulda thought.’
‘What are ARVs?’ asked Libby.
‘Armed response vehicles,’ said Joe and Ben together.
‘Golly!’ said Libby. ‘That’s a bit heavy-handed, isn’t it?’
‘More for poaching, dog fighting and lamping, I guess,’ said Ben. ‘They’re all armed.’
Libby was staring wide-eyed. ‘I never realised. And what’s lamping?’
‘Hunting animals at night with spotlights or headlights on trucks. And birds. There are the egg collectors, too.’ Ben shook his head. ‘Awful. And the taxidermists.’
‘That’s not illegal, is it?’
‘It is if the animal is hunted illegally.’
‘We got a network,’ said Joe. ‘We all phone each other if there’s anything going on. But the police don’t like us getting in the way.’
‘No, they never do,’ said Libby. ‘So you aren’t likely to hear of any turkeys coming up for sale, then? Bob just wondered.’
‘Legal or illegal?’ said Joe with a grin. ‘No, not either. Reckon it’s down the supermarket now!’
‘Reckon it is,’ said Ben, putting down his mug. ‘Now, Owen, are you all right to drop the big tree off at the Manor? It’s too big for the Range Rover. And we’ll take ours now.’
‘Take it with the one for Carpenter’s Hall tomorrow – drop ‘em off before church,’ said Owen, who sang, to his parents’ surprise, in the choir. Carpenter’s Hall was a converted barn in Maltby Close, at the end of which stood the church.
‘Excellent,’ said Libby. ‘Thank you, Joe – and Owen. Give my love to Nella.’
Sidney the silver tabby, as usual, evinced a good deal of interest in the tree when Ben carried it into Number 17 Allhallow’s Lane. He knew, he seemed to say, that his help would be invaluable when decorating it. Libby went to move the big kettle onto the Rayburn while Ben was dispatched to the loft to retrieve the boxes of baubles and tinsel.
‘Do we have to do it now?’ he asked when he came downstairs with them. ‘I’m tired.’
‘You never do it anyway,’ said Libby. ‘I always do.’
‘I help with the Manor tree.’
‘So do I,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘But no, I’ll do this in the morning – you’ll have to go and help Owen get Hetty’s inside. Sit down and I’ll get your tea.’
‘You’re sounding like the traditional little wifey,’ said Ben, amused. ‘Where’s your pinny?’
Libby gave him a friendly thump on the arm as she went back to the kitchen.
The landline rang just as they were sitting in companionable silence contemplating the bare tree. Libby answered.
‘Fran,’ she said.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ said Fran Wolfe. Have you got anything on tonight? Harry’s got room for the four of us if you fancy coming out to dinner.’
‘Lovely, yes. Good idea. I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘At least two weeks,’ said Fran. ‘Any chance of staying over?’
‘Of course,’ said Libby. ‘Ben much prefers to have a drinking companion.’
‘See you about seven thirty, then.’
‘Good. There’s something I want to talk to you about, anyway.’ ‘Fran?’ asked Ben. ‘Tonight?’
‘They’re coming here and staying over. Harry’s got room for us, apparently.’
‘On a Saturday this close to Christmas? Good Lord!’
‘I know. I wouldn’t even have thought to ask. But it gives me a chance to talk to her about this rural crime business.’
Ben regarded her suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Because we want to find out about it, don’t we?’
Ben sighed. ‘Only if it gets Bob’s turkeys back. This i
s organised crime stuff, Lib. Not some amateur crook. These people are ruthless and dangerous.’
‘You didn’t say you knew anything about it?’
‘And everyone’s told you I do. I’m a farmer, for goodness’ sake. I know I wasn’t until a few years ago, and I’m not exactly a traditional farmer, but we’ve got the timber yard and the tenant farms -’
‘And now the hop garden,’ put in Libby.
‘And all of it open to crime. I’m part of the local ring-round scheme, you knew that.’
‘Did I?’ Libby frowned.
‘You know I get the odd call from other farmers or producers.’
‘I suppose so, but I didn’t realise it was an organised thing. It’s not just random phone calls, then?’
‘No. Everyone has a few numbers to call if they have anything to report, then those people have other numbers to ring, and so on. It works quite well.’
‘You haven’t had any trouble, though, have you?’
‘Not recently, although we’re going to have to install fairly hefty security when the brewing sheds are set up.’
‘Oh, golly – I suppose you are,’ said Libby. ‘All that shiny new equipment.’
‘Exactly. And then, of course, there are the sheep.’
‘We haven’t got any sheep,’ said Libby.
‘No, but it’s sheep worrying that’s one of the worst problems – although that isn’t organised criminality.’
‘Oh – dogs. Aren’t farmers allowed to shoot dogs if they catch them at it?’
‘Yes, but how many farmers do you see going around with a shotgun these days? And then there’s rustling.’
‘Rustling? Oh, yes. Joe told us about the farmer at Bishop’s Bottom. It’s weird, isn’t it? You associate rustling with the Wild West.’
‘Well, it’s happening here. And Bob’s turkeys are part of it.’
At seven thirty Fran and her husband Guy arrived and parked her Smart car behind Libby’s little silver bullet.
‘So what did you want to talk about?’ Fran asked as they walked down Allhallow’s Lane towards the high street.
‘Rural crime,’ said Libby.
‘Eh?’ said Fran, looking startled.
‘You see, Bob’s had his turkeys stolen.’
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