Murder in Bloom - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

‘Er – yes.’ Libby swallowed. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Why should I mind? You enjoy yourselves. See you later.’

  Libby stood looking at the phone for a good minute after Ben had rung off. She didn’t really like this new set-up at all.

  Fran arrived just before eight, carrying a bottle of wine and a pile of magazines. Libby had heard nothing from Lewis or Adam during the rest of the afternoon, and no more had been added to the television item about the death of Tony West, except to confirm that he was on the board of the television production company behind ‘the hit show Housey Housey’. Well, that cleared that one up, thought Libby.

  Libby poured wine and offered bowls of Bombay mix and peanuts, while Fran spread out magazines and brochures on the floor.

  ‘I thought you were going to have a quiet do?’ said Libby, flicking through a series of brochures for country house venues.

  ‘We are,’ said Fran, ‘but just because it’s quiet doesn’t mean to say we have to be hole-in-the-corner about it. We think this place is rather nice. Do you know it?’

  Libby took the small brochure with a picture of an old oak door on the front. ‘Looks more like a house,’ she said, opening it. ‘Oh, I don’t know though. What a great bedroom!’

  The photographs showed a four-poster bed in a room with an open fireplace, what looked like a small library and a Tudor hall with a gallery.

  ‘It only accommodates forty guests, though,’ said Libby.

  ‘As you so rightly said, we want a quiet do,’ said Fran, ‘and this is perfect. We can stay there, and there are two or three other guest bedrooms. The kids can fight over who stays, but if you look, there’s a minibus service to a nearby hotel if anyone else wants to stay in the vicinity.’

  ‘That’d be me, then,’ said Libby. ‘It looks lovely, Fran.’

  ‘Actually, Lib,’ said Fran, leaning over to top up Libby’s glass, ‘I thought you might want to stay at the venue.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s your children. And Sophie. She’ll want to be there, won’t she?’

  ‘I’d quite like you to be my attendant. Maid of honour. Bridesmaid. Whatever.’ Fran looked down at her hands, and to her surprise Libby saw a faint blush of colour in her cheeks.

  ‘Fran,’ she said, suddenly finding it hard to speak. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Fran, looking up. ‘It was because of you I met Guy. And he would like Ben to be his best man. Which would have been great if you’d still been together –’

  ‘I think we are still together,’ said Libby, ‘but I’m not sure we’re still on room-sharing terms.’

  Fran nodded. ‘Yes. Well, we can sort all that out later,’ she said. ‘We book the place exclusively, so it’s up to us who stays and who doesn’t.’

  ‘It looks expensive,’ said Libby apprehensively.

  ‘Yes.’ Fran was amused. ‘But you’re not paying, so don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Fran.’ Libby was furiously embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ Fran laughed. ‘It was your face. Now have a look at what I want to wear.’

  The next hour was spent happily poring over magazines and catalogues of bridal wear, most of it entirely unsuitable for a mature bride, as Fran said, but there were some rather more off-the-wall designs that Libby immediately homed in on. One was a positively medieval dress with a collar that framed the face, photographed on a young woman with distinctly Goth-like make-up.

  ‘You can wear that one,’ said Fran. ‘Look, they do it in several colours. It would suit you.’

  ‘Me?’ said Libby. ‘I get to wear a posh frock, too?’

  ‘Well, of course.’ Fran looked at her in surprise. ‘That’s what attendants do, isn’t it?’

  ‘What about your daughters? And Sophie?’

  ‘At my age? I want a friend, not a daughter.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby beamed. ‘OK then.’

  By the time Guy and Ben arrived at a quarter to ten, Libby and Fran had chosen their outfits, the menu and the flowers. Guy laughed.

  ‘Do I get any say in this?’ he asked.

  ‘You can change all of it except our outfits,’ said Fran, reaching up to give him a kiss. Libby marvelled at how natural and open her friend had become since announcing her engagement. Fran had always been a bit buttoned-up in her opinion.

  ‘Actually, I approve of it all,’ said Guy, looking at Fran’s notes and handing the brochure to Ben. ‘What do you think, mate?’

  Libby swallowed hard and got up to fetch glasses. ‘Whisky?’ she croaked. ‘Or coffee, Guy?’

  ‘Scotch’d be lovely, thanks, Lib,’ said Ben, not looking at her.

  ‘Coffee, thanks, love,’ said Guy.

  Ben took the brochure from him.

  ‘This place is great,’ he said. ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘Internet,’ said Fran. ‘I just Googled wedding venues in Kent. Most of them were big hotels, or part of chains. I couldn’t go to Anderson Place after …’ she trailed off.

  ‘Pete and Harry’s do? Or the other business?’ Ben squinted at her.

  ‘Both, really,’ said Fran, looking embarrassed. ‘Harry and Pete’s civil partnership was lovely, and that wedding planner – what was her name?’

  ‘Melanie,’ supplied Libby.

  ‘She was great. But we don’t want quite that level of organisation and grandeur. Do we?’ She looked up at Guy, who bent and kissed her.

  ‘No,’ he said and, settling on the arm of her chair, grinned happily at the other two.

  ‘And because we got involved in the murder, and it was such a sad story,’ continued Fran, ‘I just wouldn’t feel right going there.’

  Libby handed Ben his whisky and went into the kitchen to pour Guy’s coffee. Behind her, she could hear the other three talking wedding plans and was surprised to feel a tightening in her chest and throat. It came out of nowhere and threatened to erupt like Vesuvius, leaving her shaking and damp with perspiration. ‘Menopause,’ she muttered to herself unconvincingly, heaving a huge breath.

  ‘Lib? You OK?’ Ben’s voice behind her almost undid her again, but she bravely lifted the kettle and poured water into the empty mug. ‘Bugger,’ she said, reaching for the coffee jar.

  ‘You wool-gathering?’ He sounded amused as he came up behind her and put an arm round her. Her throat closed up again and she nodded.

  ‘Here, I’ll take that in. He doesn’t take milk, does he?’ Libby shook her head and reached for the sugar bowl. Keeping her face averted, she didn’t see Ben’s frown of concern as she handed it to him.

  She heard his voice as he gave Guy the mug, and took another deep breath before turning to go back into the sitting room. They were still talking, Ben now sitting on a chair at the small table in the window, while Fran and Guy had moved to the cane sofa. Sidney had turned his back on them all in front of the empty fireplace, his ears flattened to his head. Libby sat in the armchair, grateful that Ben was now partially behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his cream chinos and brown shoes and felt a shaft of pure desire which pooled somewhere below her middle. This, she felt, closing her eyes once more, was a surprise too far. You just do not go weak at the knees over a pair of legs. Not when you are in your mid-fifties.

  ‘Lib?’ Fran’s voice brought her back to reality. She opened her eyes to see Fran handing her the glass she had left beside the sofa.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, taking a grateful sip and trying not to empty the glass in one go.

  Eventually, without Libby taking in a word of the conversation, Guy and Fran left. Libby saw them off, then came slowly back into the sitting room. Sidney had taken her place on the armchair and Ben was sitting on the sofa. She sat down gingerly on the chair vacated by Ben. He looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Why are you sitting over there?’

  ‘Er –’ Libby cleared her throat.

  ‘Are you scared to sit next to me?’ Ben’s voice was soft. Insinuating, even. Libby cleared her throat again.

  ‘An
d something was wrong earlier, wasn’t it?’ he continued. ‘When you went to get the coffee.’

  She swallowed and took yet another deep breath.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she managed, and it came out strangled. ‘I really can’t.’

  ‘Can’t do what?’ Ben stood up, came and took her hand and led her back to the sofa, where he handed her a new glass of red wine. She held it up and watched the ruby light glowing through it.

  ‘Can’t go back to how we were at the beginning.’ Libby’s throat felt raw and she took a healthy sip of wine.

  Ben smiled wryly. ‘We haven’t. When we first got together we couldn’t keep our hands off one another.’

  ‘That was because of – because someone had been killed.’

  ‘Life affirmation.’ Ben nodded. ‘Yes, we agreed. Then we drifted a bit –’

  ‘Because of my doubts,’ Libby said.

  ‘It’s always been your doubts, hasn’t it?’ said Ben gently. Libby nodded. ‘And now?’ he asked.

  That lump was back. Libby didn’t dare look at him. ‘Erm,’ she said.

  Ben’s arm slipped round her and he gave a squeeze. ‘That’s not much of an answer.’

  ‘I love you,’ said Libby, so quietly that he had to lean in to hear her. ‘And I – ah – I –’

  ‘Will marry me?’

  Libby’s jaw went slack. That wasn’t what she intended to say. Ben smiled his wry smile again.

  ‘OK; what, then?’

  ‘I want you,’ she whispered.

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Well, it’s a start,’ said Ben, gathering her into his arms.

  Chapter Eight

  A FRAGILE PEACE HELD the following morning. Libby wasn’t stupid enough to believe that things were back to normal, even though for her, at least, it had been a magical night. Ben went back to The Manor without making any arrangements to see her later that day, and she felt more confused than ever.

  She pottered about, trying to paint and failing. At last, she called Adam.

  ‘Are you at Creekmarsh?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ Adam sounded resigned. ‘Lewis is with the police, apparently, and Mog isn’t sure that we’ll even be paid for the work we’ve done already, so we’re waiting to see.’

  ‘So you’ve got no work?’

  ‘Mog’s got a couple of design jobs he can be getting on with, but I haven’t.’

  ‘Are you still staying with him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Adam was obviously uncomfortable. ‘I gave up the flat in London. It didn’t seem worth keeping it on. If I need to, I can always stay with Bel for the odd night.’

  As Adam’s older sister Belinda tended to be scathing about his lack of commitment to either girlfriends or career plans, Libby wasn’t too sure about this.

  ‘You’d better come home, Ad,’ she said now. ‘You can’t stay with Mog indefinitely. His wife will get thoroughly fed up.’

  ‘You sure, Ma? You haven’t got much room – and what about Ben?’

  Libby was getting sick of being asked about Ben.

  ‘You can store stuff in the shed if necessary,’ she said, ‘and Ben’s not here all the time so it won’t bother him.’

  ‘Ri-ight,’ said Adam. ‘Well, if you’re sure. Will it be all right if I come over today? I can get the bus.’

  ‘I’ll come and pick you up if you like,’ said Libby, wanting something to do. All right, she could clean the house, something she usually neglected until the dust forced itself to her notice, but right now she just wanted to get out and do something.

  ‘Are you sure? It would be a help with all the stuff I’ve got.’

  Libby’s heart sank. Just how much stuff?

  ‘That’s fine, darling,’ she said bravely. ‘Tell me where Mog’s house is and I’ll be over in about an hour, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Leave it a bit longer, Ma, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to pack.’

  That, too, sounded ominous, thought Libby, as she switched off the phone. What had she let herself in for? Still, you always had to provide a home for your children, didn’t you? And the deserting Derek and his pneumatic Marion were hardly the father and stepmother to do that.

  Adam’s stuff wasn’t as bad as she had expected, extending merely to two large rucksacks and a couple of boxes. Mog helped get them into the boot, and Fiona, heavily pregnant, stood around smiling helpfully and holding her back. Libby thanked them both for looking after Adam, and Mog apologised gruffly for the unexpected lack of work. Adam said cheerfully it didn’t matter, just to let him know when there was some.

  ‘So what will you do now?’ asked Libby, as they drove out of Canterbury. She saw Adam’s shrug out of the corner of her eye, and set her mouth firmly. ‘You’ve got to do something, Ad,’ she said. ‘You can’t just sit around waiting for something to turn up.’

  Adam sighed heavily. ‘If you’re going to start lecturing before I’ve moved in, Ma, then I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Adam, don’t be so pathetic,’ she said with some asperity. ‘I’m entitled to say anything I want to you, you’re my son.’

  Adam lapsed into a silence that lasted almost until the bend in the road took them into Steeple Martin.

  ‘Actually, I was going to do some work for Lewis,’ he said in a small voice. ‘But it looks as though that’s not on, now.’

  Libby risked a quick look at his profile, while she waited to turn right into Allhallow’s Lane.

  ‘Why? Just because he’s being interviewed by the police? That doesn’t mean he has anything to do with this body, or the murder of Tony West.’

  ‘But his career’ll be down the tubes, won’t it?’ Adam sighed again.

  Libby pulled the car over onto the bit of green opposite her cottage. ‘I don’t know, and neither do you. Just wait until you hear from him.’

  ‘Or you do,’ said Adam, getting out and going to open the boot. ‘I bet he calls you.’

  The answerphone light was winking when they struggled through the narrow door of number 17.

  ‘Go on,’ said Adam, nodding towards it. ‘I bet it’s him.’

  And he was right.

  ‘Could you give me a call, Libby? Sorry to bother you. And tell Ad I’m sorry.’

  Adam pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Hmm,’ he said, before lugging one of the rucksacks upstairs.

  Libby went and put the kettle on and dug around for biscuits. Somewhere she had some of the home-made ginger ones Belinda had taught her to make, containing lethal amounts of golden syrup. When Adam came back down he immediately took two from the plate, his good temper restored.

  ‘Have you phoned him yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I thought I’d wait until you were here,’ said Libby. ‘Do you want to take the tea into the garden? It’s a lovely day.’

  When they were settled at the slightly unstable table under the cherry tree, Libby keyed in Lewis’s number. He answered almost instantly.

  ‘Libby, I’m sorry about this,’ he said, his voice sounding strained.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At home. They let me go.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I suppose you heard?’

  ‘About Tony West? Yes.’

  ‘Tony? I didn’t mean –’ he paused. ‘I meant about me being questioned by the police.’

  ‘I heard about that, too, Lewis, but it didn’t take much detective ability to put two and two together when Mr West’s death was announced on the radio yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, that’s why they wanted me, see. They know all about it. More’n I do, really. How’s Ad?’

  ‘He’s fine.’ Libby pointed to the phone and raised her eyebrows at Adam. He shook his head. ‘It’s a pity they’ve had to stop work on the garden, that’s all.’

  ‘They’ve what?’ Lewis’s voice rose sharply. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby, choosing her words carefully, ‘they couldn’t work in the wood, and there was no guarantee that any further work would be ca
lled for, or …’

  ‘Paid for?’ Lewis was a shrewd East End boy. ‘I know, I know. Well, you tell ’em, there’ll be a cheque in the post tonight – or, if Mog gives me his bank details, I’ll transfer the money straight away. And yes, I do want them to carry on. I want that parterre garden finished this summer, and I know it’ll take time.’

  ‘But what about the house? Is it all kosher?’

  ‘It turns out, yes. Me owning it, anyway. Look, I’ll tell you all about it. Can I buy you a drink or summat?’

  Libby flashed another glance at Adam. ‘Come over here for supper,’ she said. ‘Ad will be here. Anything you don’t eat?’

  ‘Come on, Ad, he’s going to keep you on,’ she said after switching off, watching Adam’s mutinous face. ‘And pay you up to date.’

  Adam’s face cleared. ‘What about the police?’

  ‘I doubt if you’ll be able to go back into the wood yet, but he wants you to finish the parterre.’ She smiled. ‘It turns out the house is legally his after all. At least, I think that’s what he meant. And could you ask Mog to give him a ring because he’d like to pay the money straight into the account.’

  A little later, leaving Adam to sort out the guest room and pack things away in the ancient shed, where he grumbled about damp and mould, she went into the village to see Bob the butcher, and then to Ahmed and Ali’s eight-til-late. Standing on the pavement between the two shops, she frowned. Should she ask Ben? Check whether he intended to come tonight? Conscious of a slight rolling in her stomach and an accelerated heart rate, she pulled out her mobile and pressed speed dial. It went straight to voicemail and she swore under her breath.

  As she plodded back up Allhallow’s Lane, her mobile rang.

  ‘Hi, Lib. You called?’

  ‘Did you not listen to the message?’

  ‘No – I just saw one missed call and it was you. What’s up?’

  Libby explained, slowing to a halt under the lilac tree. The scent was calming.

  ‘Right,’ said Ben. ‘So basically, this Lewis wants to talk to you about the murder and the house? And Adam’s moved in?’

  Libby’s heart sank. ‘Only temporarily,’ she said. ‘Just until things are sorted out.’

  ‘Well, you won’t want me there this evening, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘Mum’ll be happy to see a bit more of me. I’ll call you tomorrow.’