Murder in the Green

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Gee thanks,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘And after I’ve solved your case for you.’

  He grinned at her. ‘I expect us simple plods would have got round to it eventually,’ he said. ‘Come on Fran.’

  Libby watched as he and Fran picked their way slowly through the undergrowth. She could see a flattened sort of path that she guessed, with a shudder, might have been the route John Lethbridge’s body had taken to the bottom. Fran stopped just short of the tent, frowning at the ground. Libby saw her look up at Ian after a moment and say something, but she couldn’t hear what it was. Then Fran turned and began to make her way back up the bank.

  ‘What happened?’ said Libby. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Fran, slightly out of breath. ‘It was odd. Just something about a woman. I couldn’t tell anything else. Because of a woman? I think that must have been it.’

  ‘Nothing about the murderer?’ Ian came up beside them.

  Fran shook her head. ‘Just something about a woman.’

  Fran and Libby looked at each other. ‘Elizabeth Martin?’ they said together.

  Ian sighed. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What have you been up to now?’

  After ascertaining that Fran could get nothing more from the scene, they started back the way they had come, while Libby told Ian all they knew, including her morning’s visit to Frensham Barn.

  ‘I assume you were going to tell me all this sometime?’ said Ian.

  ‘We were,’ said Fran. ‘In fact we were discussing it earlier. But you must know all about Frensham Holdings already.’

  ‘We do. And even we could see that Martin and Frensham had been having an affair and that Phillips wanted to step into his shoes.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby was downcast. ‘And what about Martin telling Phillips she could kill him?’

  ‘Your Trisha could be exaggerating,’ said Ian, as they came out on the hillside opposite the chapel. ‘People do say that in the heat of the moment. Perhaps he’d been trying it on.’

  ‘And what about someone snooping in the offices at night?’

  ‘Monica Frensham. She’s now the major shareholder in the business, but she’s always been kept in the dark, and she wants to know.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby almost bumped into Fran as they crossed the little stone bridge. ‘Oi! What did you stop like that for?’

  Fran lifted her head. ‘There’s something here,’ she said. ‘A disturbance. Suffocating.’

  ‘Like the feeling when Aunt Eleanor was murdered?’ Libby went round until she stood in front of her. ‘Did someone die here?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It’s just very unpleasant.’

  Ian was examining the stone parapet and then getting down on his haunches to look at the ground.

  ‘I know!’ said Libby again.

  ‘What?’ Ian and Fran looked even more surprised.

  ‘I bet this is where the impostor joined the group.’ Libby almost bounced in excitement. ‘See, if they all came over this bridge, they’d all be sort of squashed together, and it would be easy for someone to slip in at the back if they were waiting hidden at the side of the bridge. Just wait until Lethbridge came along and bingo.’

  Ian nodded slowly. ‘But not that easy. You could be right, though.’ He looked round. ‘Where would he hide?’

  ‘Over there.’ Libby pointed. On the side of the bridge where it joined the little village street, trees came right up to the edge. ‘If he walked here before the Morris side did, he could wait in there until they arrived and pick his moment.’

  Ian crossed the bridge and began examining the ground the other side.

  ‘There won’t be anything there now,’ murmured Fran.

  ‘Are you getting anything else?’ asked Libby quietly.

  ‘No. Just nastiness. Let’s go.’

  They followed Ian across the bridge and went straight back to his car.

  ‘Pity,’ said Fran. ‘It’s such a pretty spot.’

  ‘It is.’ Libby turned to look at the row of cottages with their bright, traditional front gardens. Even the crested grebe had reappeared on the stream. ‘I wonder if he’s the one I saw two years ago,’ she said, going over to the bank to watch.

  ‘Its grandson, I should think,’ said Fran.

  Ian rejoined them and opened doors. ‘Anything else, Fran?’ he asked as he climbed into his own seat.

  ‘Nothing. Just there’s definitely something about a woman.’

  ‘The motive, you think?’

  ‘That would make sense,’ said Libby, leaning forward from the back seat. ‘If it was someone’s wife Lethbridge was playing with – here! Could it have been Monica Frensham? Perhaps Bill killed him?’

  ‘Then who killed Bill?’

  ‘Ah.’ Libby sat back.

  ‘Someone who’s wife both Bill and John had been playing around with?’ said Fran.

  ‘That could link it to the Goddess Cult,’ said Libby, and realised she hadn’t filled Ian in fully on her exploits in Cornwall. She gave him the potted version and finished up with Wilhelmina Lethbridge. ‘So it could be her, except the same thing applies as it does to Monica Frensham.’ She sighed gustily. ‘I can see why Bill or John might kill each other, but not why someone would kill them both.’

  ‘Excuse me for interrupting,’ said Ian, swinging out on to the main road, ‘but have you forgotten the obvious?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That Frensham was killed because he saw who killed Lethbridge.’

  Fran and Libby looked at each other.

  ‘Aren’t our policemen wonderful?’ said Libby.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Not having had time to shop or cook, Libby took Ben to the Pink Geranium that evening, and over lentil soup and mushroom lasagne told him about the day’s events.

  ‘So you’re officially on the case now, are you?’ he said, twirling his wine glass between his fingers.

  ‘Not officially, no, but Fran’s being asked to help again, and I did give Ian some ideas.’ Libby smiled triumphantly. ‘I am of some use sometimes.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Ben gave a wry grin. ‘I suppose I shall have to put up with it.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ Libby put her hand over his. ‘I won’t have another thing to do with it if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘I was the one who made the excuse for you to investigate Frensham Holdings, remember?’ He patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry about it. I shall rest easier now I know Ian’s aware of your snooping.’

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Libby, forking up the last of her lasagne, ‘if you really wanted to have this party after all. If it was just an excuse. Elizabeth Martin was so vicious I wouldn’t put it past her to come and mess it up on purpose. I’m sure they both actually wondered why on earth you’d chosen the barn.’

  ‘I suppose it was a bit childish, wasn’t it?’ Ben stared out at the darkening high street. ‘Hoping I could scare them into admitting dodgy dealing.’

  ‘Was that what you wanted to do?’

  Ben refocused on her. ‘In a way. I’d like to know what was going on in that company. I told you.’

  ‘I know you did, but I couldn’t see how holding a party there would help that.’

  ‘I suppose I wanted to sneer at what they’d done to my lovely design.’

  ‘In public? That’s not like you.’

  ‘No.’ Ben sighed. ‘Oh, well. They won’t be surprised if I pull out after this morning, will they?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Libby. ‘But I told you Barry Phillips wanted me to tell him if they found out anything more about Frensham’s death. He was convinced Lethbridge had killed him and disappeared.’

  ‘That was what everyone was supposed to think, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and he really did. When he realised it wasn’t true he was scared shitless. I think he must have thought Elizabeth Martin had done it.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past her,’ said Ben. ‘I told you she was scary.’
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  ‘But why would she? Phillips said they broke up months ago and Frensham wouldn’t have her back. I can imagine her going for him when they broke up, or during a row, but not planning something like this. Anyway, why would she kill Lethbridge?’

  ‘Is Ian sure they were killed by the same person?’

  ‘Surely it’s got to be,’ said Libby, reasonably. ‘Someone dressed up in Lethbridge’s Morris clothes on May morning.’

  ‘Are you sure they’re Lethbridge’s clothes?’

  ‘No, they’re not, actually, because he was still wearing his when he was found, but the murderer was wearing Cranston Morris clothes – had to be, or he’d be noticed in the crowd on Beltane Night. Then he put the same ones on in the morning and danced all through the parade before killing Frensham and disappearing.’

  ‘I still don’t understand how he could just disappear like that.’

  ‘Everyone would have been milling about, and they weren’t the only black face Morris there. He just wandered off into the crowd.’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘And they reckon it’s Monica Frensham who’s been snooping around the offices?’ he said, after a while.

  ‘So Ian thinks. She’s the major shareholder now and according to him she’s always been kept in the dark so she wants to find out.’

  ‘That surprises me,’ said Ben. ‘She’s such a quiet mouse of a woman. I didn’t think she took any interest in the business. She would be quite happy to let Martin and Phillips run everything, I would have thought.’

  ‘But if she knew Martin and her husband had been having an affair? Perhaps she wants to find something against Martin to get rid of her.’

  ‘You can’t just get rid of a director,’ said Ben, ‘and she’s a shareholder too, don’t forget.’

  ‘Perhaps Monica thinks there were fraudulent dealings, like you. Then she could get rid of her, couldn’t she?’

  ‘And land the business in trouble,’ said Ben. ‘And much as I would like to see them get their come-uppance, a lot of people are employed by Frensham Holdings, either directly or indirectly. It wouldn’t be fair on them.’

  ‘So you’d let them get away with it?’

  ‘I don’t think I ever thought I’d go to the authorities. Just make life a bit uncomfortable for them.’

  ‘You said you like Phillips.’

  ‘He was the best of them, and I don’t think he was involved in whatever it was.’

  Adam emerged from the kitchen, flushed of face and with his hair on end.

  ‘’Lo, Ma, Ben.’ He bent to kiss his mother.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Libby beamed at him. ‘Working hard?’

  ‘Harry’s a slave-driver,’ said Adam, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘Much worse than Mog.’

  ‘Mog is far too mild to be a slave-driver,’ said Libby, referring to Adam’s garden designer boss. ‘And what about Lewis? Is he still around?’

  ‘Down tomorrow. We’re filming another segment for the programme.’

  ‘So you’ve got to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the cameras in the morning, then?’

  Adam preened. ‘I always am,’ he said.

  Harry joined them and swung a chair out, swinging a leg astride. ‘Case conference?’

  ‘How did you guess?’ said Ben.

  ‘Libby’s got her Sherlock face on.’ Harry helped himself to a glass of their wine. ‘Want some, Ad?’

  ‘Can I get myself a beer?’

  ‘Yeah, go on, drink the profits.’

  Adam grinned and went to the counter.

  ‘Deadly Morris men then, is it?’ said Harry. ‘Arrested Diggory yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Libby, ‘but give me time.’

  ‘He’s a good baker. Don’t know what else he deals in, but the bread’s good.’

  ‘What do you mean, deals in?’ Ben asked, frowning.

  Harry shrugged. ‘Just an expression. He always seems to be on the verge of giving me a nudge and a wink and offering me dirty postcards.’

  ‘He is a bit like that, isn’t he?’ said Libby. ‘I think he’s in with this business of the Goddess Cult. Well, I know he’s in with it. An excuse for a bit of hanky-panky.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s into anything else?’ Ben was looking worried. ‘Drugs, or something?’

  ‘Or something? Can’t think what else it would be, unless it was under-the-counter gingerbread men.’

  ‘So you do think he’s dealing?’

  ‘Come on, Ben, how would I know?’ Harry turned to where Adam was pouring a beer and chatting to Donna. ‘’Nother red for your mother, sunshine,’ he called and turned back to Ben. ‘No, I wouldn’t know. There’s definitely something a bit lairy about him, but apart from sounding me out about kinky goings-on when we first got the business he’s always been straight with me.’

  ‘Kinky goings-on?’ Libby giggled. ‘Sounds a bit dated, whatever it is.’

  ‘Bona!’ said Harry, and gave her a grin. ‘One has to put on the polari occasionally, dear heart. Punters expect it sometimes. But no. He was just hinting at sordid little parties as far as I could make out. I made it very clear that I was a serious young man with a reputation to uphold and he left me alone after that.’

  ‘So does he do all his baking himself?’ asked Libby, making room for Adam as he returned to the table.

  ‘Some of it. Does the decorative stuff, and to be fair he’s a great confectioner and pâtissier, but he leaves his staff to do most of the everyday stuff. He comes and takes orders and keeps on the right side of the customers. Takes orders for Frensham Supplies, too.’

  He looked round the table, surprised at the effect his words had produced. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘It was Bill Frensham who was murdered,’ said Libby.

  ‘Yeah, even I know that,’ said Harry, uncorking the wine with an enormous corkscrew. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’

  ‘It’s a coincidence,’ said Libby.

  ‘And the great detective doesn’t like coincidences,’ said Ben.

  ‘Do you get stuff from Frensham Supplies, too?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not into office equipment, dearie.’ Harry poured wine.

  ‘Office equipment?’

  ‘You could have worked that one out, Lib,’ said Ben. ‘Can’t see Frensham Holdings going into catering, can you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. What are they? Marketing, Supplies and – what was the other one?’

  ‘Media. Small-scale promotional films and radio commercials.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that come under Marketing? Surely it’s all the same thing?’

  Ben shrugged ‘Ask your friend Barry Phillips. He’s Marketing, alarming Elizabeth is Media. Bill was Supplies.’

  ‘Bill was MD, too, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Chief exec, dear, these days. Martin is executive director. Although what they are now is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Excuse me, dears, but we’re still here, you know,’ said Harry.

  ‘You brought the subject up,’ said Libby. ‘Asking about Diggory.’

  ‘He can’t be a crook with a name like that,’ said Adam.

  ‘Out of the mouths,’ said Harry, giving him a pat. ‘Bless.’

  ‘What sort of office equipment?’ asked Libby, going back to the conversation before last.

  ‘No idea,’ said Ben. ‘The usual, I suppose. Printers, scanners, cartridges, stationery. We never used them, and they certainly didn’t push themselves.’

  ‘Sir Jonathan,’ said Libby. ‘I bet he did. I’ll ring him tomorrow.’

  ‘Why are you so interested all of a sudden?’ said Ben.

  ‘She’s probably unearthed a drugs distribution ring,’ said Harry. ‘Leave her alone with her fantasies.’

  ‘I’m just trying to find a motive for Bill Frensham’s murder,’ said Libby. ‘We can’t find one yet.’

  ‘But I thought you’d got two murders now. There must be a joint murderer,’ said Ben.

 
‘Ian thinks Bill saw who killed Lethbridge so he had to be killed.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Harry, ‘assuming Lethbridge is this person who vanished like the mist in May, it would be the motive for his murder that mattered, wouldn’t it? So you’re looking in the wrong direction.’

  Adam, Ben and Libby stared at him.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Libby.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘Listen,’ said Libby on the phone to Fran. ‘It’s John Lethbridge we should be looking at.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘So?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been looking at Bill Frensham.’

  ‘You have. Ever since we came back yesterday I’ve been thinking about the motive for Lethbridge’s murder, if what Ian said was right.’

  ‘Oh,’ Libby said, deflated. ‘Harry pointed it out last night. I hadn’t thought of it.’

  ‘Wilhelmina would be a good place to start,’ said Fran. ‘How do we get to her?’

  ‘She has kept cropping up, hasn’t she? I could ask Gemma.’

  ‘What about that Diggory person?’

  ‘He cropped up again last night, too,’ said Libby, and repeated the conversation.

  ‘You could always get on to him about the Goddess business,’ suggested Fran.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Libby.

  But the next person she spoke to on the phone came as a total surprise.

  ‘Is that Mrs Wilde?’ The female voice was soft and hesitant, timorous almost, thought Libby.

  ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘I’m Ben’s partner, Libby Sarjeant. Can I help you?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said the voice. ‘Did you go and see Mr Phillips at Frensham Barn yesterday?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself.’ The voice gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m Monica Frensham.’

  Libby’s eyebrows flew up. ‘Mrs Frensham?’ she repeated.

  ‘Er – yes.’ Monica Frensham cleared her throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind my phoning you, only I understand you’ve been asking some questions.’

  Libby’s stomach rolled in acute embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry –’ she began.

  ‘No, no, please,’ interrupted Monica. ‘I don’t mind at all. In fact, I was wondering – could we meet?’