MURDER
IN STEEPLE MARTIN
LESLEY COOKMAN
First published by Accent Press Ltd – 2006
This edition printed 2012
ISBN 9781908917072
Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2006
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
In memory of
Brian Cookman
Acknowledgements
There are many people I have to thank for helping this book to see the light of day, so here they are, in no particular order. Hazel Cushion of Accent Press, Jenny Hewitt, who saw the original version years ago, the wonderful Hilary Johnson, without whom … Bernardine Kennedy, who nagged me, all my friends in The Romantic Novelists’ Association, especially Jenny Haddon and Katie Fforde and, finally, my fantastic children, Louise, Miles, Phillipa and Leo.
Thank you all, very much.
More titles in the Libby Sarjeant Series
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
LIBBY SAT ON A plastic chair in the middle of what would be the auditorium of the Oast House Theatre and considered mass murder. Her feet were cold, her hands were cold, she was thirsty and it seemed to her that every single person on the stage – and behind it – was going out of their way to do exactly the opposite of what she wanted.
‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered as a member of the cast ran to the wrong corner of the stage again and then stopped and looked for a prompt.
‘Other way, Emma,’ she called, just refraining from adding, ‘You silly cow.’ What was the matter with the girl? She was behaving like a rank amateur. She was an amateur. Oh, bloody hell again.
The rehearsal wore on. The partially constructed hop garden at the back of the stage was showing an alarming tendency to become part of the action and was constantly being propped up by nervous actors; the back-stage team were having a violent argument at a pitch the actors could only dream about and the plastic chair was getting harder and harder.
‘That’s it,’ said Libby standing up suddenly and dislodging a pile of the lighting technician’s notes. ‘Let’s all go to the pub.’
Silence fell and bewildered faces turned towards her.
‘But we haven’t done scene three,’ came a plaintive voice from the back of the set.
‘We haven’t done scenes one and two, either, have we? Not properly. Not so’s you’d notice.’
‘What?’ People began looking at each other, shrugging.
‘That’s a bit unfair, Libby,’ said the plaintive voice.
‘On me, yes.’ Libby walked forward, gathering her long cardigan around her. ‘Now don’t get me started, or I shall bawl you all out and you’ll hate me. So, let’s go and have a sociable drink and forget it for tonight. We’ll put in an extra rehearsal tomorrow …’
Howls of protest met this remark, as she’d known they would.
‘I can’t make tomorrow –’
‘I haven’t got a babysitter –’
‘It’s my late night –’
‘But tonight was extra! I only said I’d do a Sunday as a favour –’
‘Try.’ Libby was firm. ‘Everybody who can. We go up in less than two weeks and this – not to put too fine a point on it – is a shambles. Pull your socks up and I’ll see you here at seven-thirty tomorrow night.’
She watched the cast gather their belongings together and mutter their way towards the back of the theatre.
‘Libby, darling,.’ came a voice from behind her, ‘you must meet my dear mama.’
Libby turned the full force of her smile upwards at the severely coiffured head of the woman standing next to Peter Parker.
‘How lovely to meet you,’ she said. ‘Peter’s told me so much about you.’
Peter acknowledged this patent untruth with a lift of an eyebrow and turned to his mother.
‘Mum, this is Libby Sarjeant –’
‘With a J,’ interrupted Libby automatically.
‘With a J,’ Peter continued smoothly. ‘You’ve heard all about Libby, haven’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Libby detected a faint twang of something other than Home Counties in the nasal voice. ‘You’re the lady who’s come to help Peter with his little play.’
Libby saw Peter suppress a wince and fumbled for his hand to administer a solidarity squeeze.
‘Not exactly come specifically, Mum. She lives here already.’
‘Yes, dear.’ Peter’s mother inclined her head. ‘Where was it now? I’m sure you told me.’
‘Allhallow’s Lane, yes, Mum …’ Peter was clearly getting impatient. ‘We’re all going for a drink. Would you like to come with us?’
Millicent Parker’s face showed a certain degree of horror at this suggestion and she moved towards the back of the auditorium.
‘No, thank you, dear.’ She bestowed what she obviously thought was a smile on Libby. ‘But thank you for asking me. I’ll just pop off home.’
‘She didn’t even say what she thought of the play,’ said Libby wonderingly, gazing after the retreating figure.
‘I thought she wanted to come and see it.’
‘She did. She asked. Wanted to make sure it was suitable for her little boy to be mixed up with.’
A tall figure in pink shirt and leather trousers, blond hair flopping over his brow, emerged from back-stage as Peter was closing the door. ‘Who was that?’
‘My mother.’ Peter flung himself onto Libby’s abandoned chair.
‘Oh, ’er. All padlocked knickers and spray polish,’ said Harry. ‘We going to the pub?’
Libby sighed. ‘I don’t really feel like it, if you don’t mind,’ she said.
‘I don’t, but I think your stage manager might be miffed. He’s already gone.’
Peter reached over and patted him firmly on the bottom. ‘Make us a cuppa, then, love.’
‘Oh, make it yourself,’ grumbled Harry, but disappeared into the kitchen nevertheless.
Libby sat on the edge of the stage and found her cigarettes. ‘So that’s your mama.’
‘That’s her. All M&S pretties and hair like a middle-aged Barbie.’
‘She doesn’t look like a farmer’s wife.’
‘Well, it’s the old East End, isn’t it? Not county born and bred.’
Harry came in with a beautiful decoupage tray and assorted chipped mugs. ‘Sorry about these. We’ve used all the decent ones.’ He handed a mug to Libby, pulled up another plastic chair beside Peter, sat down and lifted Peter’s feet on to his lap.
‘I’m not sure I understand your family,’ said Libby. ‘It’s very complicated.’
‘That’s because you have a sweet, simple nature, you old trout.’ Peter sipped his tea. ‘Like us. That’s why you fit in here.’
‘The theatre or Steeple Martin, do you mean? I wonder. They don’t really know anything about me.’ Libby frowned into her mug.
‘They know you’re divorced and you’ve got children.’ Harry shrugged. ‘Probably know how often you wash your sheets and whether you’ve had the change yet, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Libby nodded, acknowledging the omniscience of villagers.
‘Anyway, I like it. I love the cottage. And it’ll be lovely to have the theatre.’
‘If we ever get the bloody thing off the ground.’ Peter said, absent-mindedly resting his mug on Harry’s crotch.
‘Watch the goods, dear,’ said Harry, gently moving it aside.
Libby looked up. ‘I thought we were getting it off the ground. The theatre’s nearly finished, we’ve only got two weeks until we open – what’s the matter?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m just filled with doom and despondency the further into it we get. Who’s going to come to a converted oast house in the depths of Kent to see an unknown play performed by amateurs?’
Libby stood up. ‘Publicity, that’s what we need. Something to make it stick in people’s minds, so that they say – “Oh, yes, The Oast House. That’s where they did that terrific –” well, I don’t know, but terrific something. Harry’s caff’s doing OK. And that was good opening publicity, wasn’t it? And people remember the name.’
‘I wish I could forget it,’ said Harry gloomily. ‘Pink bloody Geranium. What a name for a caff.’
‘Didn’t you name it, then?’ asked Libby, surprised.
‘No, it was already The Pink Geranium. I thought it sounded good for a vegetarian restaurant,’ said Peter, ‘but a ponced-up caff is hardly the same as a theatre, is it?’
Harry came over and pulled Libby off the stage.
‘Oh, come on. Let’s go to the pub after all. A game of darts might cheer the old sod up.’
‘I really won’t come if you don’t mind,’ said Libby swathing herself in blue wool. ‘I need to think what to do with them tomorrow. And I’ve got to get back to Sidney.’
‘Have you got to go and feed that walking stomach of yours?’
‘Sidney is a very well-built cat,’ Libby defended.
‘Spoilt rotten and completely dictatorial. I wonder you didn’t call him Hitler,’ said Peter.
‘And I need to go and be nice to the crew. If they’re still here.’
‘Most of them. Stephen went because you said you were going,’ said Harry.
‘Yes,’ Libby sighed. ‘Never mind.’
Peter grinned at her. ‘That was telling ’em, though, ducky. Needed a nuclear device up the jacksie tonight, didn’t they?’
In the unfinished emptiness of the auditorium, she made her way round back-stage to soothe the ruffled spirits in the workshop. A hand fell on her shoulder, making her jump.
‘Stephen! I thought you’d gone.’
‘I thought you were going to the pub, but Harry and Peter said you were still here.’ Stephen’s light, pleasant voice sounded slightly petulant.
Libby picked her way carefully between new ropes and stage weights, feeling in front of her with an outstretched hand. ‘I wasn’t really in the mood. Sorry, Stephen. You go.’
‘No, I’ll walk you home. You shouldn’t be out on your own at this time of night.’ He held the door to the workshop open for her.
‘In Steeple Martin?’ She laughed. ‘Can’t see anything happening to me here.’
The remaining two members of the back-stage crew were putting on their coats and switching lights off.
‘You OK, you two? I wasn’t moaning at you, earlier, by the way.’
They both grinned and assured her they were immune to moaning.
‘Can you come tomorrow?’
No, they couldn’t they said, or their wives would have their guts for garters, but they’d be there the day after.
‘I can’t either, Libby,’ said Stephen as they walked back through the darkened theatre and he turned to lock the doors behind them.
‘Never mind. It’s the actors who need the rehearsal, not back-stage.’
‘Yes, but I’m stage manager. I ought to be there.’
‘It’s fine. Pete’ll be with me. And we won’t move anything on set, just work round it.’
Stephen took her arm and frowned at her as they walked down the drive to the High Street. ‘Peter’s always here. Does he need to be?’
Libby looked up, surprised. ‘He wrote it, it’s his baby. Of course he wants to be here.’
‘So why was his mother here tonight?’
‘The play’s about his family. She just wanted to see what’s going on.’
‘She didn’t look too pleased.’ Stephen smiled grimly.
‘No, she didn’t, did she? Don’t know why, she was only a baby when it all happened.’
‘The main character’s her sister? Peter’s aunt?’ asked Stephen, as they turned into the High Street.
Libby closed her eyes and hung on to her temper. ‘Did you not read the script, Stephen?’
‘Of course!’ He sounded surprised. ‘But the script doesn’t say who the real people were. And I haven’t had much discussion with you since you asked me in to take over back-stage.’
‘Sorry,’ said Libby remorsefully, ‘I know I’ve taken advantage of you.’
Stephen was resident stage manager at the Little Theatre where, over the years, Libby had made a name for herself as an actor and director. Now, faced with the challenge of a new theatre and inexperienced but willing stage crew, Libby had persuaded him to come and take charge. A divorcee like herself, he had interpreted her request in a somewhat more intimate manner than Libby had intended, but she was managing to keep him at bay so far, with the help of Peter and Harry, whom Stephen quite obviously resented.
Allhallow’s Lane led off the High Street, an indeterminate huddle of cottages of varying ages, which petered out in a half-hearted manner in front of what could have been a green.
‘Well, you could tell me now,’ Stephen said, as they approached the green. ‘I could come in for coffee?’
‘I’m tired, Stephen. That’s why I didn’t go for a drink. And you’ve got half an hour’s drive home, don’t forget.’
She saw him open his mouth to reply, and knew he was going to suggest that he stayed. She h
urried on.
‘It’s really very simple. Peter’s Aunt Hetty came down here to Manor Farm as a hop picker with her mother and sister, who is Peter’s mother Millie. One weekend when their brother, Lenny, was down here with their father, a tallyman was killed and their father disappeared. Eventually Hetty married Greg, the owner of Manor Farm.’
‘So they’re all still alive?’ asked Stephen, coming to a halt by his car, parked on the verge opposite Libby’s cottage.
‘Yes, and they all live here, except Lenny. Even Hetty and Greg’s children, Susan and Ben, are local.’
‘And Peter? Does he have any brothers or sisters?’
‘One younger brother, James. He lives in Canterbury.’
Stephen frowned down at the car keys in his hand. ‘And none of them married?’
Libby shot him a surprised look. ‘Eh? Well, Hetty and Greg obviously are. Millie’s husband died, Ben’s divorced and Susan is married to a local doctor. And Peter …’
‘Is married to Harry.’ Stephen raised an eyebrow. ‘More or less.’
‘And they’re very happy.’ Libby tightened her lips.
Stephen laughed. ‘Don’t jump to their defence, Lib. I wasn’t criticising.’
‘You don’t like them.’
‘Peter always seems to be there when I try and talk to you. I think it’s more that he doesn’t like me rather than the other way round.’
Libby let herself relax. It was probably true. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it.’ She reached up impulsively and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Off you go. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.’
Chapter Two
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT’S REHEARSAL was marginally better, although not as well attended by either crew or cast, but, nevertheless, Libby felt able to go and have a drink with the cast, if only to deprive them of the pleasure of talking about her behind her back.
The pub, much beloved of calendar photographers, rested wearily against an upright Georgian house in the middle of the High Street. One day, Libby was convinced, its hanging baskets would slide right in through the windows next door. She pushed open the door and battled her way through bucolic humanity to the side bar where the cast and crew who were allowed to stay out after ten o’clock had gathered in a dismal group. Peter put a pint of lager into her hand.
Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series Page 1
