Murder in Midwinter

by Lesley Cookman

  MURDER

  IN MIDWINTER

  LESLEY COOKMAN

  First published by Accent Press Ltd – 2007

  This edition printed 2012

  ISBN 9781908917058

  Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2007

  The right of Lesley Cookman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  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, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6SA.

  Cover design by Sarah Ann Davies

  More titles in the Libby Sarjeant Series

  For Gus

  Acknowledgements

  This book owes its existence to my “music hall musical” Summer Season, written at the suggestion of Max Tyler, the archivist for the British Music Hall Society, who also provided me with valuable research material. My thanks to him, and to the Lindley Players, the original cast of Summer Season, who gave it life.

  WHO’S WHO IN THE LIBBY SARJEANT SERIES

  Libby Sarjeant

  Former actor, sometime artist, resident of 17, Allhallow’s Lane, Steeple Martin. Owner of Sidney the cat.

  Fran Castle

  Also former actor, occasional psychic, and owner of Balzac the cat.

  Ben Wilde

  Owner of The Manor Farm and the Oast House Theatre.

  Guy Wolfe

  Artist and owner of a shop and gallery in Harbour Street, Nethergate.

  Peter Parker

  Ben’s cousin. Free-lance journalist, part-owner of The Pink Geranium restaurant and partner of Harry Price.

  Harry Price

  Chef and co-owner of The Pink Geranium and Peter Parker’s partner.

  Hetty Wilde

  Ben’s mother. Lives at The Manor.

  Greg Wilde

  Hetty’s husband and Ben’s father.

  DCI Ian Connell

  Local policeman.

  Adam Sarjeant

  Libby’s youngest son. Works with garden designer Mog, mainly at Creekmarsh.

  Lewis Osbourne-Walker

  TV gardener and handy-man who owns Creekmarsh.

  Sophie Wolfe

  Guy’s daughter. Lives above the gallery.

  Flo Carpenter

  Hetty’s oldest friend.

  Lenny Fisher

  Hetty’s brother. Lives with Flo Carpenter.

  Ali and Ahmed

  Owners of the Eight-til-late in the village.

  Jane Baker

  Chief Reporter for the Nethergate Mercury. Mother to Imogen.

  Terry Baker

  Jane’s husband and father of Imogen.

  Joe, Nella and Owen

  Of Cattlegreen Nurseries.

  DCI Don Murray

  Of Canterbury Police.

  Amanda George

  Novelist, known as Rosie

  Chapter One

  ‘BLOODY AWFUL, AREN’T THEY?’ muttered Peter Parker, as Libby Sarjeant returned to her seat in the auditorium to pick up her script and basket, having dismissed the cast of Jack and the Beanstalk after a fairly dismal rehearsal.

  ‘No worse than they were for The Hop Pickers. They’ll be all right.’ Libby crossed her fingers.

  ‘Sure we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew?’ Peter wound a scarf round his neck as they went into the foyer.

  ‘Oh, I expect so. After all, we don’t do things by halves, do we?’ Libby went to switch off the lights. ‘Our first play, written by you in a theatre owned by your family and converted by your cousin Ben was somewhat marred by a murder, so in a spirit of reckless abandon, we decide to do a pantomime, also written by you, with musicians we’ve never worked with and an inexperienced cast.’

  Peter held the glass doors open for her. ‘Piece of cake,’ he grinned.

  ‘Not, of course, to mention the fact that in amongst all this we have Christmas and your wedding.’

  ‘Civil Partnership, dearie,’ he corrected.

  ‘Same thing. How’s it going, anyway?’

  ‘Nothing to it.’ Peter shrugged. ‘Harry’s doing it all.’

  Libby raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

  The pub, in the middle of the village High Street, had appeared on many postcards and calendars. With its hanging baskets now filled with seasonal holly, the windows shining like golden nuggets in the darkness, Libby decided it would make a great Christmas card. Inside, the fire was roaring, and several members of the cast were herded together in the smaller of the two bars. Harry, Peter’s intended and owner of The Pink Geranium, still in chef’s trousers but with a fleece jacket instead of his whites, waved a pint in their direction.

  ‘Hello, dear hearts,’ he said. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘Lager, please,’ said Libby. ‘You’re early, aren’t you?’

  ‘He shouldn’t be working at all,’ said Peter. ‘Monday’s usually his day off.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Why is he, then?’

  ‘Christmas party. Special booking. Loads of them between now and the big day.’

  Harry handed them both glasses. ‘Need all the dosh we can get for our big day, dear,’ he said.

  Libby changed the subject. ‘Anyone seen Fran?’

  ‘She’s in London seeing to the house sale,’ said Harry. ‘She popped in this morning on her way out.’

  ‘Good, because she forgot to tell me she was going and I was without a Baroness at the rehearsal tonight.’

  ‘Where’s young Ben, then?’ asked Harry, making a dive for a table that had just become free.

  ‘He said he’d meet us here,’ said Libby. ‘He popped in to see his Mum.’

  ‘Uncle Greg’s not too well again,’ said Peter. ‘I just hope he doesn’t get worse before Christmas.’

  ‘So do I.’ Libby looked gloomy.

  ‘Because you might lose your wicked Baron?’ said Harry mischievously.

  ‘No!’ Libby was indignant. ‘Because it’s awful to lose someone at any time of year, but Christmas is worse, somehow.’

  ‘Ey-up,’ said Harry suddenly. ‘Don’t look now, but guess who’s just come in?’

  ‘Who?’ said Libby, turning round immediately. ‘Blimey!’

  ‘Who is it?’ Peter craned round her to see.

  ‘It’s that Inspector, you know, Connell.’

  ‘He’s still after Fran,’ said Harry with glee.

  ‘He’s not after Fran,’ said Libby, although she was by no means sure. Inspector Connell had been involved in a recent murder investigation during which he had met both Libby and Fran, and afterwards had showed a marked predilection for Fran’s company.

  Peter snorted.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Sarjeant.’

  Libby looked up at the tall, dark man looming over the table. ‘Good evening, Inspector Connell,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid Fran isn’t here. She’s in London.’

  ‘I know. I spoke to her this morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby was taken aback.

  ‘Just wanted to say hello.’ He nodded affably round the table. ‘I’ll see you before the trial, I expect.’

  ‘Oh, God, another trial,’ moaned Libby, as he moved away to join a group of people on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Never had anything to do with the police in my life and now I’ve got two trials to go to. In less than a year!’


  ‘Well, you could have stayed out of the last one,’ said Peter, reasonably. ‘You didn’t have to get involved.’

  ‘But it was Fran. She needed me.’

  ‘Well, it obviously wasn’t Fran he was here for tonight,’ said Harry, still staring at the imposing back of Inspector Connell. ‘I wonder why she called him this morning?’

  ‘We’re supposed to keep the police informed if we go anywhere,’ explained Libby. ‘In case they need us for more questions or anything.’

  ‘Is that normal?’ asked Peter. ‘Or just because Connell’s interested in Fran?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘Stop badgering.’

  ‘Is Fran still after that cottage in Nethergate?’ said Harry, still watching Connell.

  Peter followed his gaze. ‘Hoy. Eyes right, love.’

  ‘I was just wondering if it was him or Guy she wanted to be in Nethergate for,’ said Harry, patting Peter’s hand.

  ‘Why should it be either?’ Libby finished her lager. ‘She just wants to buy the cottage back that should have been hers. I don’t blame her, either. It’s a gorgeous location.’

  ‘But unhappy memories, I would have thought,’ said Peter.

  ‘Not any more. She seems to have exorcised those. She just remembers the holidays. Happy memories.’

  ‘She certainly seems to have honed her – what do you call them – psychic powers? Doesn’t she?’ said Harry.

  ‘Because she needed to use them,’ said Libby. ‘She’s not so frightened of them now, although she still doesn’t trust them properly.’

  ‘And what about your idea of a detective agency?’ grinned Harry.

  ‘Your idea, you mean. You were the one who started it.’ Libby grinned back. ‘I still think it’s a great idea.’

  ‘Libby, don’t be daft,’ said Peter. ‘You said yourself, the police always get there before you do.’

  ‘Ah, but not always the same way. And anyway, there are bound to be little matters which wouldn’t interest the police, like finding out about houses –’

  ‘Fran does that already, for Goodall and Smythe,’ put in Harry.

  ‘No, things about houses people already own. Or things they’ve lost. Oh, I don’t know. There must be loads.’

  ‘Well, let Fran get settled before you go involving her in hare-brained schemes,’ said Peter. ‘As you so rightly said earlier on, there’s a lot going on at the moment. She’s trying to sell the London house, buy the Nethergate cottage and be the Baroness in our panto.’

  Libby felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘And just where was my Baroness tonight?’

  She looked up and smiled, thrilled to find her solar plexus quivering at the sight of her beloved, even though they’d now been together for several months and she should be used to it.

  ‘What-ho, Ben,’ said Harry. ‘Are you buying?’

  ‘All right, but I still want to know where Fran was,’ said Ben, giving his cousin Peter a friendly clap on the shoulder. Libby explained about Fran while she went with him to the bar.

  ‘She forgot,’ she said, ‘she’s got a lot on her mind.’

  ‘And I don’t think Guy’s helping,’ said Ben, handing her two glasses.

  ‘Guy? Why? He’s really keen, although I’m not sure about her,’ said Libby, weaving through bodies towards their table. Guy Wolfe had also been peripherally involved in the recent investigation and had almost managed to appoint himself Fran’s significant other. But not quite.

  ‘Too keen, and a bit jealous.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Libby nodded towards the group by the fireplace. ‘Inspector Connell.’

  Ben looked surprised. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Meeting friends, by the look of things,’ said Harry, accepting his drink. ‘Nothing to do with Fran, apparently.’

  Ben looked at Libby.

  ‘True. He knew she’d gone to London.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You wait till tomorrow,’ muttered Libby. ‘She’s got some explaining to do.’

  ‘It’s her own business, Lib,’ said Ben, gently.

  ‘Not if it affects my pantomime,’ said Libby, ‘then it’s mine.’

  Later, as Ben and Libby walked back to her cottage in Allhallow’s Lane, he returned to the subject.

  ‘Aren’t you and Fran getting on so well any more?’

  Libby looked at him, surprised. ‘Of course we are. Why?’

  ‘You seemed a bit put out with her.’

  ‘Only because she’s been holding out on me. I don’t call that friendly.’

  ‘You said she forgot the rehearsal.’

  ‘That’s what Harry said. I think she talks to him more than she does to me.’ Libby sounded grumpy.

  ‘See, you’re not getting on so well.’ Ben dug her in the ribs.

  ‘Well, I thought we were. She obviously doesn’t.’

  They turned into Allhallow’s Lane. The lilac and cherry trees overhanging the old brick wall on the left poked bare branches at their hair and scraped eerily on the wall.

  ‘Do you remember when I first asked if you wanted me to see you home?’ said Ben, squeezing Libby’s arm.

  ‘And I said no. And then regretted it.’

  ‘Did you?’ Ben turned to look at her. ‘Oh, good.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Libby was drinking tea at the kitchen table the following morning when the phone rang.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Fran. ‘I’m so sorry about last night. I meant to get back in time, but I got held up and my mobile ran out of charge.’

  ‘OK.’ Libby took the phone back into the kitchen with her and turfed Sidney, her overfed silver tabby, off her chair. ‘I thought you were staying up there overnight.’

  ‘How did you know I’d gone?’

  ‘Harry told me.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t get home until after midnight.’

  ‘How did you get back from the station?’

  ‘Taxi.’ There was no mistaking the triumph in Fran’s voice. ‘You just cannot imagine the joy of being able to afford a taxi.’

  ‘Oh, I can,’ said Libby, who couldn’t.

  ‘Anyway, the house is sold – more or less –’

  ‘To those developers?’

  ‘Yes. Well, once I found out about what had happened there I didn’t want to keep it. So now all I’ve got to do is sort out the Nethergate cottage and I’ll be done.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby, remembering, ‘that Inspector Connell turned up at the pub last night.’

  There was a short silence. ‘Did he?’ said Fran eventually.

  ‘It’s all right, he wasn’t there to see you,’ said Libby, slightly maliciously. ‘He was meeting friends.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But he said you’d called him that morning.’

  ‘No. He called me. To say he was meeting friends in the pub and if I was around could he buy me a drink.’

  ‘I thought you’d rung him.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘I thought you were keeping something from me.’

  ‘A secret affair with Inspector Connell?’ Fran laughed.

  ‘He’s quite attractive.’

  ‘I know. So’s Guy.’

  ‘Who’s acting like a terrier with a bone, I gather?’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Ben. I don’t know how he knew, though.’

  ‘Libby, you live in a small rural community. Even I know how gossip spreads in a place like this.’

  ‘Really? Well, can you tell me? Because I can never work it out.’

  Fran laughed. ‘Come off it. You’re one of the nosiest people I know.’

  Libby sniffed. ‘I find out things. So do you.’ She paused. ‘Harry was asking about the detective agency last night.’

  Fran sighed. ‘Oh, Libby, be serious. Do you really want to go through all the complications of setting up a business? Trying to get clients? Just becaus
e we’ve been involved in a couple of murders by accident?’

  ‘Don’t trivialise them!’

  ‘I’m not, but it’s very different being involved because you actually are involved to barging into an investigation.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of doing that,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘It was more lost items, or – or well, what you do already, but not for estate agents.’

  ‘Well, it’s not on, whatever it is,’ said Fran. ‘Now, would you like to come to lunch and I’ll tell you about the house progress and everything?’

  ‘Great,’ said Libby, cheering up. ‘I’ll bring a bottle. What time?’

  Chapter Two

  ROBERT GRIMSHAW OF GRIMSHAW and Taylor came round a teak desk that had been the height of furnishing fashion in the sixties. Bella thought that he had probably got stuck in the same time warp.

  ‘Mrs Morleigh. So pleased to meet you. Do sit down. Tea? Or coffee?’

  ‘Er –’ said Bella.

  ‘Tray of tea, please.’ Robert Grimshaw addressed the secretary hovering by the door without looking at her and went back to his chair behind his desk. ‘Now,’ he said, opening a buff folder. ‘I expect all this came as a bit of a shock to you?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Bella smiled, trying to relax her tense shoulders and sit more comfortably in the low slung chair.

  ‘It surprised me, as well, and I knew Miss Alexander.’ Robert Grimshaw surveyed Bella over his clasped hands. ‘You have a look of her, you know.’

  ‘I do?’ Bella was obscurely pleased.

  ‘Remarkably well preserved lady for her age. Ninety-two, she was, you know.’

  ‘Ninety-two? My father would have been eighty-eight this year.’

  ‘That would be Bertram, Miss Alexander’s half brother.’ Robert Grimshaw looked up as the door opened to admit the secretary struggling under the weight of a laden tea tray. Bella had to fight with herself not to get up and help while Robert Grimshaw merely watched benignly, tutting when a little tea trickled out of the spout.

  ‘Will you be mother?’ He leaned towards her archly. Bella tried to avoid the pale eyes which swept her lasciviously as, gritting her teeth, she levered herself to the edge of the chair and poured tea into two pale green cups.

  ‘So.’ Robert Grimshaw sat back in his chair and sipped his tea appreciatively, his expression as he looked over the rim of the cup still faintly salacious. Bella, unused to such admiration, felt uncomfortable.