Murder in Steeple Martin - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I’ve come to visit Mr Fisher,’ said Libby, wondering if she should ask whether he was at home, or whether this was superfluous.

  ‘May I have your name?’ The vision lifted the receiver of a sleek black telephone.

  ‘Libby Sarjeant.’ Libby stopped herself adding the “with a J” and waited while a number was punched into the phone.

  ‘Mr Fisher? Oh, there’s a lady in reception to see you. A Mrs Sarjeant. Shall I send her up?’

  The vision listened, nodded and replaced the receiver before turning back to Libby. ‘He says to go up. First floor, turn right, room number ten.’

  The corridor was quiet, carpeted to a thickness hitherto untrodden by Libby, and punctuated at intervals by highly polished console tables with uniform arrangements of flowers. It didn’t seem a bit like Lenny.

  ‘Libby.’ He opened the door and grinned widely. ‘This is a pleasure, girl. Come in. Want a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks, Lenny. I’m driving.’ Libby sat down in a pink dralon armchair and looked round.

  ‘All a bit prissy, ain’t it?’ said Lenny, going to a sideboard and pouring himself a large brandy. ‘Still, it’s better than looking after meself. All these things belonged to Shirley, of course. Not my taste.’

  ‘Shirley?’

  ‘My wife – late wife, I should say.’

  ‘Oh. I thought she –’ Libby stopped, wondering if she would ever get the hang of thinking before she spoke.

  ‘Left me for another bloke? She did. But that was ten years ago – or more. She wore herself out, silly cow, going off with a younger man. Should’ve known she couldn’t keep up the pace.’

  ‘So did you never think of marrying again?’ Libby knew she was being sidetracked, but couldn’t think of a way to bring up the subject of the play and the theatre.

  Lenny solved the problem for her.

  ‘Oh, yes, I wanted to get married again. I always wanted old Flo.’ He nodded and his eyes looked past Libby into his memory. ‘Always fancied her. She was Het’s best friend in London, you know. Known her all me life. Good woman, that. Bit of a flirt when she was younger, mind, but a good friend. Good friend to our Het, anyway.’

  ‘In the old days, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah. And later on, of course, when old Greg came back from the war wounded. She helped Het run that farm along with Frank.’

  Hang on, we’ve skipped a bit, thought Libby. Aloud she said, ‘When did she actually meet Frank? When Hetty met Greg?’

  ‘We’d all known him years, but the first time she let him come courting was that year Het took up with Greg, yeah. She was good to Het, then.’ He shook his head and sat in silence for a minute while Libby racked her brains for a tactful way to ask her questions.

  ‘So what did you want to see me about, girl? You didn’t come for the good of your health, I’ll be bound.’ He took a healthy swallow of brandy and sat back in his chair.

  Libby took a deep breath.

  ‘I want to know what’s going on, Lenny. You were there for two of the accidents which seemed directed at the theatre – or the play – or something to do with the family and then you came back home. Last night, someone tried to set fire to the theatre. Luckily, Ben saw it and called the fire brigade, so there’s virtually no damage. But someone’s got it in for us, and from what you said, you think you know who. And unless I find out and put a stop to it, we’ll have no play – and more important, no theatre.’

  Lenny sat looking down into his brandy glass for so long that Libby wondered if he’d dozed off.

  ‘It’s my fault, you know, girl. I go round saying things. Geeing people up. I don’t know nothing, really, but people think I do.’

  Libby regarded him balefully. ‘That’s no answer. Even if you know nothing, someone thinks you do. Who is it?’

  Lenny shifted in his chair and fiddled with the stem of his glass. ‘No idea. How could I have when I don’t know what I’m talking about?’

  Libby gave vent to a hefty sigh of exasperation. ‘Look, do you want to see this play go on?’

  Lenny looked up. ‘I don’t know,’ he said simply.

  Libby’s mouth tightened. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he repeated. ‘If it’s causing trouble – and it is – perhaps you should call it off. It’s my family, don’t forget.’

  Libby sat back in her chair and glared moodily at the toe of her boot. ‘You’re all the same. You, Ben, Peter …’

  ‘Why, what have they done?’

  ‘They’re both warning me off, now, after being on my side to start with. I mean,’ she went on, sitting forward again, ‘it was Peter who came up with the idea of the theatre and the play in the first place and Ben who put them into action and saw them through. Why have they changed their minds?’

  Lenny shrugged. ‘Family, ducks. That’s what it’ll be.’

  ‘But how do you know it’s anything to do with the family? A wire was cut on a piece of scenery in the play, and a bridge was damaged when anybody – anybody at all – could have walked over it. The fire could just be mischief, as the fireman said this morning. So where does the family come into it? Unless you all know something I don’t.’

  ‘What do they say about it, then?’ Lenny parried.

  ‘They won’t. And yet they were both on my side, as I said – Ben was still speculating about why you’d run off home only a couple of nights ago. Then suddenly they’ve both changed sides. I feel like a leper.’

  Lenny shrugged. ‘Can’t help you, girl. I don’t know nothing about it.’

  ‘Now why don’t I believe you?’ Libby was getting angry, a fairly common occurrence these days. ‘I believed Flo. I believed everything she said to me. But you …’

  ‘When did you see Flo?’ interrupted Lenny, his eyes bright. ‘Did she say anything about me?’

  ‘Yes, she did. She said you were a wide boy and she didn’t give you any encouragement.’

  Lenny’s face fell.

  Libby relented. ‘But I think she likes you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, she always liked me. I was too young for her at first, see? Then she went and married old Frank and that was that.’

  ‘Well, you’re both free now, aren’t you? And if you want a piece of advice, next time you want to see her, let her know in advance. Make an arrangement to go down. Take her flowers. She doesn’t want to be taken for granted – for you to think that she’s always there whenever you want to see her.’

  Lenny looked at her as though he’d seen the Holy Grail. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I reckon,’ Libby said, ‘although why I should help you I can’t think. You haven’t done much to help me.’

  Lenny looked shamefaced. ‘Nothing I can do, girl. I don’t know what’s going on. Really, I don’t.’

  Libby stood up, wrapping her cape and scarf round her. ‘Bit of a wasted journey, then, wasn’t it?’

  Lenny struggled to his feet. ‘No, it ain’t. It’s nice to see someone. I get lonely. Tell you what. It’s gorn lunchtime, but how about we go out for tea? There’s a lovely restaurant down the road does a smashing tea – cucumber sandwiches and everything.’

  Libby looked at his eager face and grinned. ‘All right, Lenny. Sounds good. As long as I get back at a reasonable time.’

  The restaurant, all pale wood and pastel prints, did indeed do a smashing tea. Lenny blossomed in his role as gentleman gallant and Libby realised what a waste it was – him up here and lonely and Flo in Steeple Martin, not lonely, it was true, but able to provide Lenny with everything he wanted and needed.

  ‘Now, don’t forget,’ she said, as he waited while she unlocked her car. ‘Next time you come down, ring Flo and arrange to go and see her – or take her out for tea. Harry would do you a nice tea in The Pink Geranium if you asked him.’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought.’ Lenny suddenly leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re a good girl. Don’t you let our Ben get away.’

  Libby smiled ruefully as she climbed behind the wheel.
‘I think he already did,’ she said.

  Chapter Twelve

  LIBBY ARRIVED HOME EARLIER than she expected and, due to Lenny’s cucumber sandwiches and cream cakes, didn’t bother with supper. After feeding Sidney she went to check the answerphone, realising as she did so that, once again, she’d forgotten to take her mobile with her.

  The number five was flashing insistently at her, and she frowned as she pressed the button. Five? No one needed her that urgently, did they?

  ‘Libby, call me back. This is urgent.’ Ben’s voice.

  ‘Lib, pick it up if you’re there. Why don’t you take your bloody mobile?’ Peter’s voice.

  ‘Me again.’ She heard Ben sigh impatiently before he put the phone down.

  ‘Er – Mrs Sarjeant, this is, er – Detective Sergeant Cole, Canterbury Police Station. Could you call me back, please.’ The strange voice gave a number and Libby’s frown grew deeper. She was aware of the strange sensation under her ribcage that she knew was an adrenalin surge – but this time which was it, fight or flight?

  The next one was James. ‘Libby, could you call me back? I’m at Mum’s – at least I am at the moment.’ There was a pause. ‘Er – just thought – well, anyway, thanks.’

  And then the disembodied electronic voice: ‘You have no more messages.’

  Oh, my God, thought Libby sinking down on to Sidney’s favourite step. What’s happened now?

  Unwilling to find out, she pottered about, checking the studio, lighting a fire and generally pretending to be a normal, organised middle-aged woman. Eventually, aware of the fact that she was mentally putting her hands over her ears, she sat down by the telephone with a pad and pencil and re-ran the messages. Carefully noting the number Detective Sergeant Cole had given, she took a deep breath and punched it in.

  Clearing throat. ‘Detective Sergeant Cole?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Ah – this is – erm – Libby Sarjeant, with a J.’ Pause. ‘Mrs Elizabeth.’

  ‘Mrs Sarjeant, yes. I’ve been waiting for your call.’

  ‘Oh. Ah. Have you? I’ve only just got in. When did you call?’

  ‘This afternoon, madam. I did come to your house, but there was no reply.’

  ‘I wasn’t here.’

  ‘No, madam, I realise that. Mr Wilde and Mr Parker told me you were away. Have you heard from either of the gentlemen since you returned home?’

  Libby’s stomach was sinking so fast she had difficulty speaking.

  ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ she managed. ‘Is it the theatre? What’s happened?’

  ‘Ah, yes, the theatre. The gentlemen told me about the incidents connected with the theatre. No, madam, it’s not to do with the theatre – not exactly, anyway.’

  ‘The children?’ Libby’s voice rose with a squawk and her head began to swim.

  ‘No,’ she heard from a distance. ‘It’s a Miss Paula Wentworth.’

  ‘Paula?’ Libby snapped to attention. ‘What’s she done?’

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid, madam. You’ve not heard from her, then?’

  ‘Oh, God, she’s disappeared. No, not for days. James – her, well, her boyfriend, did give me a message, but I haven’t seen her since the – er, since we had a – well, an accident.’

  ‘I heard about that, madam. No, I’m afraid it’s not that. Miss Wentworth is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes, madam. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, no,’ Libby began, and stopped. Her thoughts didn’t seem to be in any sort of order at all. She wondered if this was the beginning of a descent into dementia. She started again.

  ‘Paula’s dead?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Was it the baby?’

  ‘Baby?’ Cole’s voice sharpened. ‘She had a baby?’

  ‘No, she was pregnant. Wasn’t it that?’

  ‘No, madam.’ The sergeant was speaking slowly, as if reorganising his brain. ‘We haven’t yet had the post-mortem results.’

  ‘Post-mortem? What for?’

  ‘I’m afraid she was found dead in her car this morning.’ The sergeant’s voice was now flat and unemotional.

  ‘Suicide?’ gasped Libby. Her pencil snapped in two.

  ‘I’m afraid not, madam. It would appear to have been a deliberate killing.’

  Libby had been through so many odd sensations in the last few minutes she wouldn’t have thought there was anything left, but this was entirely new. A sort of explosion of physical and mental symptoms that left her unable to speak.

  ‘Did you hear me, madam? Mrs Sarjeant?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, forcing her voice through an almost closed throat. ‘Murder?’

  ‘It looks like it, madam. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Libby again. ‘No, it’s all right. Murder. Oh, God.’

  Sergeant Cole cleared his throat. ‘Would it be convenient to come and have a word with you, madam? This evening?’

  ‘Me? Why? Well, yes, if you need to. Whenever you like.’

  ‘We’ll be with you as soon as we can, madam. Thank you.’

  It was only after she’d put the receiver down that she wondered why she’d been connected with Paula. Her mind shied away from the name.

  She rang Peter, unwilling to speak to Ben.

  ‘Lib! Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ He sounded more agitated than Libby had ever heard him.

  ‘About Paula.’ Libby took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she said the name.

  ‘You’ve heard. Did Ben tell you?’

  ‘No, the police. A Detective Sergeant Cole.’

  ‘Ah, right. Has he been round?’

  ‘No, he phoned. He’s coming this evening.’

  ‘I’ve cancelled the rehearsal,’ said Peter after a pause.

  ‘Oh, God, I’d forgotten that. What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose we’d better talk about it.’ Libby heard him sigh. ‘I really think this is the last straw.’

  ‘You want to call it off.’

  ‘How can we go on?’

  Libby felt her throat close and tears start behind her eyes. How ridiculous, to cry over the play when there was something far more awful to cry over.

  ‘What does Ben say?’ As if I didn’t know, she thought.

  ‘He hasn’t said much. Look, I must go. Call me after PC Plod’s been to see you and we’ll go for a drink. I think we all need one.’

  ‘All right, if he doesn’t arrest me. Has he seen you?’

  Peter laughed. ‘Oh, yes. He’s seen all of us.’

  And that doesn’t tell me anything, thought Libby, as she stared out of the window waiting for the constabulary to call.

  She didn’t have long to wait. She saw a dark saloon roll gently to a halt just past the cottage and dropped the curtain. A moment later there was a sharp knock on the door.

  ‘Mrs Sarjeant? I’m DS Cole. This is DC Burnham.’ DS Cole flashed his ID, just like the TV, thought Libby, and indicated a young woman with pale blonde hair and glasses standing just behind him.

  ‘Come in,’ said Libby and moved into the sitting room. She managed to clear enough space for all three of them to sit and ejected Sidney from the coffee table.

  DS Cole regarded her impassively from dark eyes. His thin moustache reminded Libby of a 1950s spiv – George Cole, perhaps, in the St Trinian’s films. Oh, God, his name was Cole. She vainly tried to suppress an inappropriate bubble of laughter.

  ‘Now, Mrs Sarjeant. Perhaps you could tell me your full name and address.’

  ‘But you’re here. You know my address. And my name.’

  ‘For the record, madam. DC Burnham will be making notes.’

  Libby glanced at DC Burnham, and, sure enough, there was the little notebook that they always produced in court. (“Did you make these notes contemporaneously, Constable?”). She gave her name and address.

  ‘And when did you last see the deceased?’

  ‘
At a rehearsal at our theatre. Last week? So much seems to have happened. Yes, last Tuesday. I think.’

  DS Cole looked at his own notebook. ‘And that would have been the night there was an accident at the theatre?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby felt a blush rise up her neck. ‘I suppose we should have reported it.’

  ‘No one was hurt, were they, madam?’ Cole’s dark eyebrows rose sharply.

  ‘Well, no, but we were all very shocked.’ Libby wondered if Ben had told them about the cut wire. Surely not.

  ‘No need to report it, then. And how was Miss Wentworth when you last saw her?’

  ‘Shocked, I told you, we all were. She didn’t turn up after that. James told me she wasn’t well.’

  ‘And that would be Mr James Parker?’

  Libby nodded.

  ‘How long have you known Miss Wentworth, Mrs Sarjeant?’ The dark brown eyes were fixed on her again, like pools of mud with no light in them at all.

  ‘Several years. We all belong to an amateur dramatic society near here.’

  ‘And this is your theatre? The – ah – the Oast House Theatre?’

  ‘Oh, no. We belong to another group. But some of us live here, in Steeple Martin, and when Peter wrote his play based on the story of his aunt and uncle, his cousin Ben decided to convert the oast house into a theatre for the local community.’ Libby paused for breath. ‘But I suppose you know all this already.’

  DS Cole gave no sign that he knew anything. ‘These gentlemen being Mr Peter Parker, Mr James Parker’s brother, and Mr Benjamin Wilde?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you have any closer connection with Miss Wentworth, Mrs Sarjeant?’

  ‘Closer connection?’ Libby was bewildered. ‘No. She wasn’t a friend, or anything like that.’

  ‘Oh? I understood she knew all the gentlemen we’ve mentioned rather well.’ DS Cole was watching her carefully. Even DC Burnham looked up from her notebook, light glinting off her glasses unnervingly.

  ‘Well, better than I did, probably. I’ve only recently moved here from the other side of Canterbury.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘This accident at the theatre,’ said DS Cole suddenly. ‘Any chance it could have been aimed at Miss Wentworth?’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t.’ Libby shook her head firmly. ‘Anybody could have been hurt.’