Murder in the Green

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s all very interesting, and thank you for telling me all about it, but–’

  ‘You didn’t tell me if you are looking into Bill’s death,’ he said.

  ‘Not really, although my friend has been helping the police a bit.’ Libby crossed her fingers again. ‘But I was going to say, I shouldn’t worry too much. Now John Lethbridge’s body has been found, it looks as thought the murder was more connected to his private life than his business life.’

  The door of the office crashed open. A tall, striking redhead stood there and Libby thought she could almost see flames coming from her nostrils.

  ‘And exactly what is going on here?’ she said.

  Elizabeth Martin had arrived.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘Liz!’ Barry Phillips stood up in a rush. Elizabeth Martin’s eyes swivelled to him under lowered brows.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he corrected himself. ‘This is Mrs Sarjeant –’

  ‘I know.’ The fierce eyes turned back to Libby, who was sitting fascinated and rooted to her chair. ‘I want to know what she’s doing here.’

  Libby opened her mouth but Barry Phillips beat her to it.

  ‘To check out the facilities for Ben Wilde’s retirement party,’ he said, going round the desk and attempting to take Elizabeth Martin’s arm. She shook him off.

  ‘So I’m told,’ she said. ‘And I want to know why. Bill would never have allowed it.’

  ‘Of course he would.’ Barry Phillips was flustered. ‘Whatever had happened –’

  ‘No. Ben Wilde tried to get money from us after giving us a sub-standard design. He was – is, I should say – a chiselling fraud.’

  Libby opened her mouth again, but once more Phillips beat her to it.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ His voice had taken a completely different tone, and Elizabeth Martin turned to him in surprise. ‘That was totally uncalled for and extremely rude. Apart from the fact that Ben Wilde’s design was far superior to that which we’ve got now, he is anything but a fraud. And I would remind you that Frensham Barn is under my jurisdiction, not yours, and if I wish to let it to anyone, I will.’ He sat down again, looking thunderous.

  Elizabeth Martin stood rigid except for her eyes which flicked between Libby and Phillips.

  ‘How dare you!’ she whispered finally. ‘This is to get back at me, isn’t it?’ She leant across the desk, her face inches from Phillips’s. ‘Because he’s dead and you still can’t have me.’ She straightened, cast a scathing glance at Libby and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Libby didn’t know where to look. She could hear Phillips breathing heavily and kept her eyes fixed on her coffee cup, wondering how soon she could decently get up and make her escape.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Phillips eventually. She looked up at him and shook her head with a slight smile.

  ‘She – er – she was very – um – fond of Bill. She’s not exactly – well, she’s not –’

  ‘Got over him?’ suggested Libby.

  He nodded.

  ‘Were they having an affair?’ Libby winced at her own bluntness.

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘Sorry, this is a most unprofessional meeting.’

  ‘On both sides,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t worry. But her attitude was fairly self-explanatory. I don’t think anyone’s ever called Ben a chiselling fraud before.’

  ‘No, and of course he couldn’t ever be.’ Phillips sighed again. ‘She’s just overwrought and –’ he stopped, colouring faintly again.

  Libby was dying to ask him if he was in love with Elizabeth Martin, but even she wasn’t tactless enough to do so. He stood up and turned away from her, jingling something in his pocket.

  ‘Well, I’d better go.’ She stood up, too, and put her coffee cup down. ‘I’ll get back to you if I think of anything else.’

  Phillips turned back to her, frowning. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘And if you hear anything else about Bill’s murder – do you think you could possibly let me know?’

  Libby’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, of course, as long as I’m allowed to.’

  ‘Allowed to?’

  ‘By the police,’ said Libby, colouring in her turn. ‘We – that is, my friend and I – are supposed to keep everything in confidence. In fact, perhaps I shouldn’t have told you about John Lethbridge’s body.’

  Phillips’s expression lightened. ‘But you did – and just before Elizabeth came in you said it looked as though the murder wasn’t connected to his business life.’

  ‘But to his private life.’ Libby looked him in the eye. ‘And Mrs Martin certainly looks as though she was his private life.’

  Phillips’s shoulders slumped and he sat down again. ‘But not any more,’ he said.

  ‘Well, obviously. He’s dead.’

  ‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. He’d broken off the relationship months ago.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Libby sat down. ‘And she was mad?’

  ‘You saw her.’

  ‘I certainly did. Powerful lady.’

  Phillips smiled slightly. ‘She’s not always so – so –’

  ‘Awful?’ suggested Libby. ‘No, I’m sure she isn’t. But a tartar in business.’ She leant her elbows on the desk. ‘How does she get on with Monica?’

  ‘Monica?’ he looked up, startled.

  ‘Hated her?’

  Looking uncomfortable, Phillips nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s about all for now,’ said Libby and stood up again. ‘I’ll be off.’

  ‘You sound like Columbo.’ Phillips attempted a smile and got to his feet. ‘I wish I could say it had been a pleasure, Mrs Sarjeant.’

  ‘Call me Libby. Everyone does,’ said Libby blithely. ‘And if I hear anything else about Bill I’ll let you know. Unless it’s prejudicial, of course,’ she added solemnly.

  Barry Phillips walked to her car with her and held the door open.

  ‘Don’t think too badly of Elizabeth,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll reserve judgement,’ said Libby with a smile, ‘but tell me. Why does she want –’ she stopped.

  ‘Want what?’ He frowned.

  ‘Why does she seem to hate you too?’ Libby hurriedly revised.

  ‘I don’t think she does really.’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Libby.’

  Thank goodness I stopped myself in time, Libby said to herself as she drove down the drive. Fancy asking the poor man why his beloved wants to kill him!

  She turned all she’d learnt over in her mind on her way home, desperate to talk to Fran about it. In the end, she stopped in a lay-by and pulled out her mobile.

  ‘Would you be free if I came over now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I could put aside my pressing engagements. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve got so much to tell you. Could we go to Mavis for coffee?’

  ‘It’s lunchtime. We could go to the pub.’

  ‘I don’t feel like the pub. It’s nice and sunny. We could sit under Mavis’s gazebo.’

  Twenty minutes later they were sitting under the gazebo outside Mavis’s Blue Anchor cafe, looking out over Nethergate Bay, the two trippers’ boats, the Sparkler and the Dolphin bobbing gently below the hard, while their owners, Bert and George sat at another table with their large mugs of strong brown tea. Libby summarised her meeting at Frensham Barn, including everything Ben had told her.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ she finished, nodding thanks to Mavis, who put down two mugs and an aluminium ashtray.

  Fran didn’t say anything for a minute, staring out at Dragon Island in the middle of the bay.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘it looks as if Martin and Frensham were having an affair, Phillips is in love with Martin but she doesn’t want him and Monica is snooping round the business.’

  ‘Yes, I know all that,’ said Libby. ‘But what else? What about the gardeners’ shed?’

  ‘What about the gardeners’ shed?’ said Fran. ‘I can’t see that has anyth
ing to do with anything.’

  ‘I thought perhaps Frensham was using it as a – a – oh, I don’t know. A hidey-hole.’

  Fran laughed. ‘A hidey-hole? He was a grown man, Lib, not a seven-year-old.’

  ‘Well, you know, perhaps for aspects of their Goddess Cult thing. Or papers he didn’t want found relating to the business. Or even to meet Elizabeth Martin.’

  ‘I doubt if he’d risk that with the gardeners in and out about their lawful business.’

  ‘Perhaps we should tell Ian, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I intend to,’ said Fran. ‘He wants to see if I can come up with anything else about Lethbridge’s murder, so I’ll tell him everything we’ve learnt from Cornwall onwards.’

  ‘Will you?’ Libby was doubtful. ‘Will he listen? And will he do anything about it? He’ll probably laugh and tell you to tell me off again.’

  ‘He wants to take me to the spot where they found Lethbridge’s body. I think you could probably come too, as it’ll be fairly informal.’

  ‘Could I?’ Libby brightened. ‘Great!’

  ‘Don’t sound so ghoulish,’ said Fran. ‘I can tell you it’s not much fun going to a murder scene.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Libby, ‘but at least Ian’s taking us – I mean you – seriously.’

  ‘He always does as long as we’re not interfering.’

  ‘But we usually are interfering,’ said Libby.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll ask him. He wants to take me this afternoon. Will you be free?’

  ‘I’m free!’ said Libby.

  They sat in the sun outside the Blue Anchor for another hour, eating Mavis’s meat pies and drinking more tea. Libby phoned Ben to tell him she was spending the afternoon in Nethergate with Fran.

  ‘And I met Barry Phillips and Elizabeth Martin at Frensham Barn,’ she said.

  ‘Martin as well? What did you think?’

  ‘You were right. She is scary. Bad mouthed you, for a start.’

  Ben chuckled. ‘I thought she might. I didn’t tell you she actually made a play for me when it looked as if I was going to take them to court over the contract.’

  ‘No! What did you do?’ Libby’s stomach curled a little with jealousy.

  ‘Oh, took her to bed and cast her aside like a broken toy,’ said Ben. ‘What did you think I did?’

  ‘Um, nothing?’

  ‘Almost. I let her know what I thought of a woman who, not only had an affair with her married colleague, but then tried it on with someone else.’

  ‘Apparently Frensham cast her aside himself a few months ago,’ said Libby. ‘I wonder who for?’

  ‘Maybe nobody, Lib. Don’t go looking for things that aren’t there. Enjoy your afternoon with Fran.’

  ‘What you two up to these days, then?’ Bert waggled his pipe at the two women as they got up to leave the café.

  ‘Nothing much, Bert,’ said Libby. ‘How about you?’

  ‘We ain’t never doin’ nothing,’ said George, ‘but you two – I reckon you’ll be stirring up mud again, eh?’

  ‘Who, us?’ Libby widened her eyes at him. ‘Never!’

  ‘Holiday-makers already,’ said Fran, looking over the sea wall on to the sands.

  ‘Mainly families with pre-school children,’ said Libby, watching a sandcastle being demolished by a determined toddler.

  ‘And senior citizens.’ Fran nodded towards a group of ladies in deckchairs, sensibly dressed in wide-strapped sandals and crimplene.

  ‘I didn’t know they still made crimplene,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps it’s the modern equivalent.’

  ‘But the same old designs,’ said Fran as she put the key in the lock of Coastguard Cottage. ‘I wonder who sells them?’

  ‘Back of the newspapers, I should think, along with the trusses and incontinence knickers.’

  ‘Don’t mock,’ said Fran. ‘You’ll need them all eventually. And you’ll be searching the small ads for Indian dresses because you can’t get them any more and you’re still stuck in the seventies.’

  ‘I am not stuck in the seventies!’ Libby was horrified. Fran grinned.

  ‘What time did Ian say he would come for you?’ Libby was leaning on the windowsill looking at her favourite view.

  ‘He said he’d ring as soon as he could, so I’ll ask him then if you can come too.’

  ‘Hadn’t you better check your messages then? Or would he have called your mobile?’

  ‘He might have,’ said Fran, ‘if I’d taken it with me.’ She picked it up from the table by the fireplace. ‘I’m always doing that.’ She pressed a button. ‘Yes – there we are, one missed call.’

  She crossed to the landline and sure enough, there was Ian’s voice saying he would pick her up at two, and that he would call her mobile.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s that,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘He’ll be here in a minute. We’ll have to hope that he’s in a good mood.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Luckily, when he arrived Ian was at least not in a bad mood. ‘I suppose so,’ he said resignedly, when Fran asked tentatively if Libby could come with them. ‘This isn’t a strictly official trip.’

  Libby fed the parking meter she’d found for Romeo, and climbed into the back of Ian’s car. ‘Nice,’ she said, patting the leather seats. ‘Must be fun to be a detective inspector.’

  ‘I could call it other things,’ said Ian, swinging the car round in front of The Sloop, under the watchful eyes of George and Bert, still sitting outside the Blue Anchor.

  They drove out of Nethergate towards Steeple Mount, but, to Libby’s surprise, turned off the main road at the sign for Tyne Hall, now on a proper signpost. Last time she had seen it the name had been on a very dilapidated wooden one. Ian turned into the little lane Libby remembered, past cottages, a wide stream and a small stone footbridge. Libby looked in vain for the crested grebe she’d seen before.

  ‘We’re on foot from here,’ said Ian, parking by the bridge.

  ‘This is the valley where Tyne Chapel is,’ said Libby, climbing out of the back seat.

  Ian nodded, locking the car. ‘But we don’t have to go near it. Just through the woods on this side of the valley.’

  They set off across the footbridge and along the footpath Libby had taken before, emerging at the top of the valley. Opposite them stood Tyne Chapel, looking no different from the last time Libby had seen it. Fran, of course, had seen it in the dark when it had been the scene of a murder.

  ‘That’s where I first met you,’ she said to Ian. He nodded and turned to his right. ‘Along here,’ he said and plunged into woodland.

  At first, the trees were fairly sparsely planted, but further along the path they became more dense. On their left the ground dropped away sharply to the foot of the valley, still thickly wooded.

  ‘They came this way on Beltane Night,’ said Ian over his shoulder. ‘It comes out near the foot of the Mount.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember seeing them coming that way at the Solstice,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t realise this was the other end.’

  ‘Why do they come this way?’ asked Fran. ‘Where do they come from?’

  ‘They were fairly reticent on that subject.’

  ‘This is a murder enquiry,’ said Fran, shocked. ‘They have to tell you.’

  ‘I didn’t say they didn’t.’ Ian looked over his shoulder, amused. ‘Just that they were reticent. They used to start from the chapel.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Libby panted, struggling with the slightly uneven ground and the pace of the other two. ‘Not that bloody chapel again.’

  ‘They can’t get inside now, and there’s a security fence round the perimeter now. Didn’t you see it back there?’

  ‘No. I didn’t look very closely. It gives me the creeps.’

  Ian stopped, and they realised they were facing police tape.

  ‘You didn’t tape the path off from the beginning?’ said Fran, looking round.

  Ian shook his head and got down on his haunches. ‘
No one comes this way except the Morris men. Unfortunately, as Libby said, they came this way at the Solstice, so any remaining signs would have been messed up, if they hadn’t already after nearly two months.’

  ‘So would the body,’ said Fran, and Libby felt sick.

  ‘What about the cottages back over the bridge?’ she asked, to take her mind off it. ‘Did you ask them anything?’

  ‘Of course.’ Ian got to his feet, still amused. ‘They used to be part of the Tyne Hall estate, but they’re all privately owned now. No one saw anything except the Morris Men going over the bridge on Beltane Night. They’re used to it.’

  ‘Do they leave their cars there?’ asked Fran. ‘Do they come back this way to pick them up?’

  ‘No they leave them in Steeple Mount and walk here.’

  ‘What puzzles me,’ said Fran, as she stared down the hillside to where they could just see a tent at the bottom, ‘is why he wasn’t missed.’

  ‘It’s dark, don’t forget, and they’re blacked up. I don’t suppose they did a head count.’

  ‘But the following morning. They all thought he was there.’ She turned to Ian. ‘They were all convinced he was there. Why was that?’

  ‘We haven’t got that far yet,’ said Ian, looking faintly disconcerted.

  ‘I know,’ said Libby. The other two looked at her in surprise.

  ‘It stands to reason, doesn’t it? They dance in the May Day parade. There had to be the right number of dancers. They’d have noticed if they were one short. Which means that whoever killed John Lethbridge took his place that morning. And, presumably, the night before.’

  Fran nodded slowly and Ian was scowling. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t think of that,’ said Libby gleefully.

  Ian shook his head at her. ‘One day,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll have to get me in the force? Isn’t that what they always say?’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Fran? Is she right?’

  ‘I should think so,’ said Fran. ‘I’m not getting anything up here, though. Could we go down?’

  ‘Must we?’ said Libby.

  ‘You can stay here,’ said Ian. ‘Don’t want you clumping over everything anyway.’