Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  MURDER

  IN THE GREEN

  LESLEY COOKMAN

  First published by Accent Press Ltd – 2012

  This edition printed 2012

  ISBN 9781908917041

  Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2010

  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 my granddaughter, Kitty

  Acknowledgements

  First, I’d like to rectify a mistake I made in Libby and Fran’s last adventure by acknowledging Miles Cookman and Chris Coates as the inspiration behind Murder In Bloom. Thanks, lads.

  There are a number of people and organisations to whom thanks are due for background information to Murder In The Green, chiefly the original Mepal Molly Men and Bogshole Mummers; Dixie Lee and the organisers of Whitstable’s May Day celebrations; and special thanks to my daughter Louise who had the idea in the first place.

  And to fellow members of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Happy 50th Birthday to us!

  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 Wolfe

  Formerly Fran Castle. Also former actor, occasional psychic, resident of Coastguard Cottage, Nethergate. Owner of Balzac the cat.

  Ben Wilde

  Libby’s significant other. Owner of The Manor Farm and the Oast House Theatre.

  Guy Wolfe

  Fran’s husband, 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 life partner of Harry Price.

  Harry Price

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

  Hetty Wilde

  Ben’s mother. Lives at The Manor.

  Greg Wilde

  Hetty’s husband and Ben’s father.

  DCI Ian Connell

  Local policeman and friend. Former suitor of Fran’s.

  Adam Sarjeant

  Libby’s youngest son. Lives above The Pink Geranium, 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

  OUT OF THE DARKNESS they came, bells silenced, boots muffled on dead leaves. The whites of their eyes caught the torchlight and reflected an ancient excitement. Above them, budding branches whispered, ahead of them the need-fire was already burning.

  The path wound down the shallow hillside among the trees. Two figures broke away, feathers nodding above black faces. Neither of them returned.

  ‘Please, Libby. Just come and talk to them.’

  Libby Sarjeant frowned at the phone. ‘Gemma, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve been involved in murders before.’

  Libby squirmed. ‘Not intentionally.’

  ‘But you have. You’re like – like – oh, I don’t know, bloody Miss Marple or something.’

  Libby closed her eyes and squirmed some more. ‘No, I’m not, Gemma. Let me tell you, the police always get there either ahead or at the same time as the amateur in these cases. Let well alone. They’ll find out what happened.’

  ‘It’s nearly two months now. How can they find out now?’

  ‘Just think of all the cold case reviews they do these days,’ said Libby. ‘They solve those, don’t they?’

  ‘They do on telly,’ grumbled Gemma.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Libby, hastily returning to the point. ‘I can’t see your lot welcoming a batty old woman asking a lot of impertinent questions, can you? Be sensible.’

  There was silence at the other end of line. Eventually Libby said, ‘Are you still there, Gemma?’

  ‘Yes. I was thinking,’ said Gemma. ‘Couldn’t you at least come along? See the celebrations?’

  ‘On the longest day?’

  ‘Yes. We start at sunrise.’

  ‘What? You must be joking!’

  ‘It’s traditional.’ Gemma sounded defensive. ‘Even the Mayor comes out to watch.’

  ‘Good for him,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘Well, if you can’t come then, you could come to one of the public displays during the day. Or even,’ Gemma was disparaging, ‘to the Saturday parade.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Libby. ‘I seem to remember that being good fun. I used to go with the kids.’

  ‘Oh, yes, how are they?’

  ‘Adam’s working with a garden designer locally, and Belinda and Dominic are both working in London. How are yours?’

  ‘Still at home,’ said Gemma gloomily. ‘Anyway, will you come?’

  Libby sighed. ‘Possibly to the Saturday parade,’ she said. ‘Where does it finish up?’

  ‘Same as we always do – on the mount.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Two-ish. But you won’t get a chance to talk to anybody then.’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d talk to anyone,’ said Libby.

  ‘But I want you to talk to them,’ wailed Gemma. ‘You don’t understand!’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do, Gemma. Believe me.’

  Libby put the phone down and frowned at her sitting room. Sidney the silver tabby twitched an ear in her direction and buried his nose more firmly under his tail. Libby sighed again, picked up the phone and sat down on the cane sofa.

  ‘Fran? It’s me.’

  ‘Hi. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m fed up.’

  ‘You sound it. Been missing me?’

  ‘As it happens, I did, but I’ve seen you twice since you’ve been back, so I think I’ve recovered.’

  ‘From the shock of my marriage, or my enforced absence on honeymoon?’

  Libby laughed. ‘Both. No, I’m fed up about lots of things.’

  ‘Lots of things? Good lord!’

  ‘Two anyway,’ said Libby. ‘One is Steeple Farm, which is turning into a monster, and the second is – well, someone’s asked me to Look Into Something.’

  Fran sighed. ‘I don’t believe it. A murder?’
<
br />   ‘Yes. Have you ever met my old friend Gemma Baverstock?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  ‘No, I just wondered. She’s a member of the Cranston Morris, if you’ve heard of them.’

  ‘No, I haven’t, but don’t forget I’ve only been in Kent for a few years. And aren’t Morris sides supposed to be men only?’

  ‘Used to be, yes, and purists still argue about it, but there are loads of female sides now. Cranston have a male side, a female side and a mixed side, but still uphold the old traditions.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know anything about that,’ said Fran, ‘except that they dance at May Day.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Libby. ‘Well, on May Day their Green Man was killed.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ll have to explain,’ said Fran. ‘I thought that was a sort of gargoyle.’

  ‘Can be,’ said Libby. ‘Often carved up high in churches and cathedrals. But in this case it’s a bloke inside a sort of conical wire frame covered with vegetation.’

  ‘And this bloke was killed?’

  ‘Stabbed inside the cage. No one knew until he didn’t start to move when everyone else did.’

  ‘People would have seen blood, surely.’

  ‘I didn’t think of that. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t ever want to get mixed up with murder again. It’s quite ridiculous.’

  ‘Oh, I agree,’ said Fran with a laugh in her voice. ‘I bet Ben does, too.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Come on, Lib. There’s something else, isn’t there? You said Steeple Farm. And Ben?’

  ‘Yes. I know I’m being silly, but –’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it? Guy’s at the shop and won’t be home until at least half five.’

  ‘Do you mind? I’ll bring lunch with me.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Fran. ‘You can bring a bottle of wine, if you like. You’ll be allowed one glass, won’t you?’

  ‘OK.’ Libby brightened. ‘I’ll leave as soon as I can.’

  Leaving a note in case anyone appeared and wondered where she was, she collected a bottle of wine from the kitchen, gave Sidney a perfunctory stroke, and left the cottage. The sky was grey, but as there was very little wind the air felt muggy, and much warmer than it had indoors. Romeo the Renault, now freed from servitude with Libby’s son Adam, sat under the trees on the other side of the little green and started at the first turn of the key.

  ‘I suppose I shall have to upgrade you sooner or later,’ Libby told the car, as she turned round to drive out of Allhallow’s Lane, ‘but while you behave yourself, I shall keep you.’

  The drive from Steeple Martin, the village where Libby lived, to Nethergate, the seaside town where Fran’s cottage looked out over the sea, was quiet and pleasant, through undulating Kentish countryside and the occasional remaining hop gardens, but today Libby was too immersed in her thoughts to admire her surroundings.

  Reaching the sign which announced itself as “Nethergate, Seaside Heritage town, twinned with Bayeau St Pierre”, she drove past the entrance to the new estate and dropped down the hill to the high street, past Luigi’s, the Italian restaurant favoured by Fran and her husband, Guy, and finally along Harbour Street, past Lizzie’s ice cream shop and Guy’s gallery until she reached Coastguard Cottage.

  The heavy oak door stood open, and Libby found Fran leaning on the deep windowsill gazing out at the small harbour, the yellow printed curtains billowing round her. She turned and smiled.

  ‘I still can’t believe how lucky I am,’ she said.

  Libby gave her a hug. ‘All this and a husband too, eh?’

  Fran blushed. ‘I can’t get used to it,’ she said. ‘I’m Fran Wolfe now. How strange is that? I’ve been Castle for the last thirty years.’

  ‘I bet people will still call you Castle,’ said Libby, hauling the wine bottle out of her basket.

  ‘I expect so,’ said Fran, ‘and I don’t really mind, as long as it isn’t the children.’

  ‘No change there, then?’ Libby followed Fran into the kitchen.

  ‘No. I sent them all postcards from the honeymoon and while Jeremy was staying here until we got back he says Chrissie and Lucy never stopped badgering him. He was very rude to them eventually, and I haven’t heard a word from them since he went.’

  ‘He phoned me at one point,’ said Libby. ‘He was so sick of them, and they were being so selfish. Not that I could do anything, but by that time his lovely girlfriend had gone back to the States and I think he wanted to let off steam.’

  ‘He said you had him over to dinner twice. He thought you were lovely.’

  ‘Good.’ Libby grinned. ‘Adam was there too, so he had someone of his own age.’

  ‘I thought Adam wasn’t living with you now?’ Fran handed over a glass of wine.

  ‘He isn’t. You know where he is, don’t you?’

  Fran shook her head. ‘I’ve only been back a week, I haven’t caught up.’

  ‘In your old flat!’ Libby announced triumphantly.

  ‘Over The Pink Geranium?’

  ‘And giving Harry a hand in the restaurant in the evenings if necessary. It seems to be working really well.’

  ‘And Lewis?’

  ‘Oh, Adam and Mog are still working on his gardens. They’re going to be beautiful. And Lewis has got a new firm in to re-do the interiors. I don’t think he wants to live there any more –’

  ‘Not surprised,’ said Fran, remembering the unpleasant events that had taken place at Lewis’s house, Creekmarsh Place, only a few weeks before her wedding.

  ‘– but he still wants to run it as a venue. He’s going to get someone in as an events manager.’

  Supplied with glasses of wine, they went back into the sitting room and sat either side of the empty fireplace.

  ‘Still liking married life?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Yes.’ Fran leant back and sipped her wine. ‘It feels so good after all these years.’ She fixed her eyes on Libby. ‘And in that direction things are still not going well with you?’

  Libby shook her head. ‘Oh, we came to a sort of accommodation before your wedding, you know we did. But even though he’s stopped pushing to get married, he’s still banging on about Steeple Farm.’

  Fran eyed her friend thoughtfully. ‘Last I heard,’ she said, ‘he was going to do it up while you stayed at Number 17 and then think again.’

  ‘I know,’ Libby nodded. ‘But he’s so enthusiastic about it. He keeps dragging me off to have a look at what’s being done – which isn’t much yet, to be frank.’

  ‘And don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s still Aunt Millie’s house to me, even if I’ve stopped thinking of those dormer windows as eyes.’

  ‘But you said –’

  ‘I know what I said.’ Libby was exasperated. ‘You said you wanted to live here on your own, and look where you are now? Married to Guy, with all that means.’

  Fran pursed her lips. ‘At least I was honest enough to admit I’d changed my mind. Love does that, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve admitted I love Ben. Ever since we came together over that girl’s murder three years ago. We’ve got a lot in common – we’re both divorced, we both love the theatre and we have the same social circle. His cousin Peter is one of my best friends.’

  Fran looked doubtful. ‘That’s not love.’

  Libby looked up quickly. ‘I didn’t say it was. I still fancy him.’

  ‘You were the one who lectured me when I was dithering about Guy. I thought you had it sorted.’

  ‘I did.’ Libby sighed. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘And Steeple Farm’s complicated matters?’

  ‘Definitely. You remember why Ben’s taken it on?’

  ‘Of course. It belongs to Peter’s mum Millie and while she’s in care he won’t sell it.’

  ‘That’s right. As all this happened just before your wedding, I wasn’t sure how much you’d taken in. So Ben’s going to do it up and live in it, and if Millie di
es he’ll buy it as a sitting tenant.’

  ‘And the original idea was that you’d both live in it, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby bit her lip. ‘It is a lovely house – or it will be, but I love my cottage.’

  ‘There would be much more room at Steeple Farm.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Libby sighed. ‘And Adam loves it. Lewis has promised to keep a watching brief over the renovations, and we’ve got that builder who’s a qualified lime plasterer doing the work.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Fran after a minute.

  ‘It still gives me a funny feeling when I go in.’

  Fran gave a sharp little nod. ‘In that case, don’t go and live there,’ she said. ‘You know as well as I do, the atmosphere is paramount, and I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I know.’ Libby nodded. Fran had been a consultant to the Mayfair estate agents, Goodall and Smythe, who sent her into properties to divine whether there was anything in the atmosphere which would preclude clients from having a positive living experience, as they put it. Put another way, to find out if anything nasty had happened in the woodshed, the cellars or the attic which might make very rich clients very uncomfortable.

  ‘You said you couldn’t see me living there,’ said Libby slowly. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Yes. I also said I could have been wrong. You know how often I’m wrong.’

  ‘I think you were right.’ Libby twirled her wine glass. ‘I won’t live there.’

  ‘What about Ben?’

  ‘He was very understanding last time we spoke about it.’ Libby stood up. ‘Can I go outside for a fag?’

  ‘You can have one in here, if you like,’ said Fran.

  ‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘It’s bad enough me still smoking without contaminating everywhere else. I’ll go into the yard. Perhaps Balzac will keep me company.’

  ‘He’ll be sleeping in the big flowerpot,’ said Fran, also getting to her feet. ‘Come on, I’ll come with you. I want to know what you’re going to do about Ben.’

  Libby went through the kitchen and out into Fran’s little courtyard. ‘So do I,’ she muttered.

  Chapter Two

  ‘SO HOW MUCH DO you know about this murder?’ asked Fran later as she cleared plates into the kitchen sink.