Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Only what I told you and what I remember from the local tv news. I noticed because it was Cranston Morris and I’ve known Gemma and her husband for ever. And a couple of the other members.’

  ‘So just that the Green Man was killed?’

  ‘And another member of the side has gone missing, yes.’

  Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that significant?’

  ‘The police looked into it at first, but he hasn’t turned up and they seem to think it was a planned disappearance.’

  ‘When he did he go?’

  Libby frowned. ‘That’s the funny thing. They were all there for the May Day parade, apparently. It was after they’d discovered that Bill had been stabbed that the other bloke must have disappeared, because he wasn’t there when they rounded them all up.’

  ‘Very significant, then.’

  ‘You’d have thought so,’ said Libby, ‘but he hadn’t had time to get far, and there was no trace of him. Even his car had gone.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a real puzzle.’

  Fran cocked her head to one side. ‘And you don’t want to look into it?’

  Libby felt the colour creeping up her neck. ‘Well …’

  ‘When does this Gemma want you to talk to them?’

  ‘At the Summer Solstice. Apparently they get up really early and dance, then they go to various sites and dance some more. Then, of course, there’s the Saturday Parade – either the Saturday before or after, whichever’s closer.’

  ‘Where’s that? And which Saturday will it be?’

  Libby wrinkled her brow. ‘The day before at Steeple Mount. Longest day is June 21st.’

  ‘Why don’t we go to the parade together?’ suggested Fran.

  ‘You don’t want to get involved, surely?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing more about it,’ said Fran. ‘What have I got to do these days? I wasn’t cut out to be a stay-at-home housewife.’

  ‘Guy won’t mind?’

  ‘Of course he won’t. As long as I’m sensible and we don’t get into trouble like we did before.’

  ‘Ben’ll mind.’

  ‘Don’t look so mournful. It’s your life.’

  Libby laughed. ‘You’ve changed!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran thoughtfully, ‘I have. Strangely, I’ve become more assertive. Guy’s been good for me in so many ways.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Libby.

  ‘You find out the times and so on and we’ll make arrangements,’ said Fran. ‘Hope the weather changes.’

  No need to tell Ben, thought Libby, as she drove home through windscreen-wiper-defying drizzle. I’ll just say Fran and I are going to have a day out together. But he knows Gemma and Cranston Morris, said an insidious little voice. He’ll know why you’re going to the parade. I’ll have to think of an excuse, Libby told herself, and tried to think of something else.

  Ben was in a particularly good mood when he returned from the Manor Farm estate office, where he worked looking after his parents rather diminished estate. Once the Manor had been the local centre of hop growing, but the gardens had all been sold off, the hopping huts knocked down, all but one small row which Ben wanted to turn into a museum, and the rest of the estate turned over to tenant farmers.

  ‘They’ve actually finished ripping out the kitchen and repairing the walls at Steeple Farm,’ he said, pouring himself a whisky. ‘Want one?’ He held up his glass. Libby shook her head.

  ‘That seems quite fast,’ she said, wiping her hands on a tea towel as she joined him in the sitting room.

  ‘It is.’ He grinned at her. ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled and tried to feel keen. ‘What’s next?’

  ‘They’ll carry on stripping the whole house and repairing or restoring as they go. Lewis popped by today and was very enthusiastic.’

  ‘Has he been at Creekmarsh?’

  ‘He stayed down last night apparently.’

  Lewis Osbourne-Walker owned Creekmarsh Place, where Adam and his boss Mog were restoring the gardens. Lewis was a carpenter whose appearances on a television homes show had given him a whole new career; a new series was being constructed round the renovation of the house and gardens. Adam was cock-a-hoop about appearing on television.

  Libby nodded and threw the tea towel over her shoulder. ‘Dinner in about an hour,’ she said.

  ‘How about a quick one at the pub, then?’ said Ben. ‘We haven’t been down there for ages.’

  Reprieve, thought Libby. He won’t talk about Steeple Farm if we’re in the pub. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Give me five minutes.’

  The sun had made a belated appearance and threw their long shadows before them as they walked down Allhallow’s Lane.

  ‘So, what did you do today?’ Ben slipped an arm around Libby’s waist.

  ‘Oh, I popped over to see Fran for lunch. She’s–’ Libby stopped and bit her lip. So happy, she had been going to say.

  ‘She’s what?’ Ben cocked his head to look at her.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Libby temporised, ‘different, I suppose.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Well, yes. But I didn’t mean that.’ Libby looked him in the eye. ‘Assertive. She said so herself.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ben was taken aback, as she had intended.

  ‘Anyway,’ Libby went on, without giving him time to pursue the subject, ‘she’s suggested we have a day out, just the two of us, next Saturday.’

  ‘Good. You’ve missed her, haven’t you?’ said Ben.

  ‘Yes.’ Libby smiled at him. ‘I seem to be surrounded by males, don’t I? And Fran is the first close female friend I’ve had in years.’

  ‘I know.’ Ben gave her a squeeze and opened the door of the pub. Libby immediately felt guilty because he was being understanding.

  ‘Is that where you’re going?’ Returning from the bar with the drinks, Ben nodded at a poster stuck up beneath the clock.

  “Midsummer Madness with Cranston Morris” it read. “Saturday Parade with fancy dress competition and Greet the Dawn at 5am on The Mount on Sunday 21st June.”

  Libby’s heart sank. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I used to enjoy taking the kids when they were younger. Fran suggested it –’ true, she thought ‘– and I thought you wouldn’t mind. Not the greeting the dawn thing, though.’

  ‘I should think not.’ Ben settled down beside her. ‘We used to go, too. I expect we bumped into one another.’

  ‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘You would have remembered me. If you recognised me when we met again a few years ago, you would have done then, too.’

  ‘True.’ Ben nodded, and paused for a sip of beer. ‘I always fancied dancing Morris.’

  ‘Did you?’ Libby was surprised. ‘I wouldn’t ever have guessed.’

  ‘Apart from the stereotypical images – you know, Arran sweaters, beards and long hair – I thought it looked fun. I was put off by the women, though.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby twisted sideways in her chair to look at him properly. ‘How come?’

  ‘They always seemed to be homing in on a male preserve, and over-enthusiastic. I even researched it once.’

  ‘Did you? What did you find out?’

  ‘That there’s evidence of women dancing way back in the sixteen hundreds, but the Morris Ring won’t allow women’s or mixed sides.’

  ‘What’s the Morris Ring?’

  Ben wrinkled his brow. ‘As far as I can remember, a sort of association of sides. Over two hundred, I think, but there are other organisations which allow the women.’

  ‘Fascinating, and one up for the girls.’ Libby lifted her glass.

  ‘Yes, but there’s no real evidence for women dancing in proper Morris sides, and it really was a men-only thing for years. The people who revived Molly dancing in the Fens in the seventies wouldn’t have them, although even some of them do now.’

  ‘Molly dancing?’

  ‘Black-faced. They dance on Plough Monday –’

  ‘You’ve lost me now,’ said Li
bby shaking her head. ‘Although Cranston Morris are black-faced. Would they have a connection?’

  ‘No idea. As I say, I only did a bit of research a few years ago. And I used to have a friend who lived in the Cambridgeshire Fens and danced with a local Molly side.’ Ben smiled reminiscently. ‘Quite rough and earthy. They used to do a Mummer’s play, too.’

  ‘We have those here, too.’ Libby was defensive.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Ben smiled again and patted her knee. ‘Cranston Morris do a Mummer’s play themselves at the Saturday parade.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Libby, ‘I should have remembered. St George and the doctor and all that.’

  ‘We ought to do one for the theatre,’ said Ben. ‘We could do a pre-Christmas thing. That’s when mummers used to go round, isn’t it?’

  ‘Wassailing?’ Libby frowned. ‘Something like that. I’ll look it up. Perhaps we could do something round the pubs to promote the panto?’

  To Libby’s relief, Ben took hold of the change of subject and began to discuss next season’s pantomime. The oast house owned by the Manor Farm had been turned into a small theatre, which was run by a consortium of Ben’s cousin Peter, Ben himself, who was the architect behind the project, and Libby. The opening production had been marred by the murder of a member of the cast, but, since then, the theatre had gone from strength to strength and gained a formidable reputation in the area.

  Peter and his partner, Harry, who owned between them The Pink Geranium, a vegetarian restaurant a few doors down from the pub, joined them at Number 17 after dinner.

  Harry complained that the credit crunch was going to halve the takings if something didn’t happen soon.

  ‘As long as you break even it doesn’t matter,’ said Peter.

  ‘Hardly doing that at the moment,’ said Harry gloomily. ‘That’s why we’ve come here to ponce a drink off you rather than going to the pub.’

  ‘And here was I thinking you were desperate for my company,’ said Libby, handing over two large glasses of red wine.

  Peter kissed her cheek. ‘What, you, you old trout?’

  Libby grinned.

  ‘So what’s been going on chez the Sarjeant Wilde household?’ asked Harry, flinging himself on to the cane sofa and upsetting Sidney.

  ‘Not a lot,’ said Ben. ‘Still working on Steeple Farm.’

  Harry shot a look at Libby. ‘Right,’ he said.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Peter. ‘James was asking the other day.’ James was Peter’s younger brother.

  ‘Has he decided he wants to move in?’ asked Libby, a little too quickly.

  ‘Good lord, no,’ said Peter with a frown. ‘He’s far too ensconced in his nice flat in Canterbury with his new girlfriend.’

  ‘New girlfriend?’ said Ben and Libby together, and the conversation was once more turned away from Steeple Farm, to Libby’s relief.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Harry, a bit later, when Libby went to fetch another bottle from the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Libby gave him a wide-eyed look.

  ‘You don’t want to move into Steeple Farm, do you?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Libby wrestled with the foil covering on the bottle. Harry took it out of her hands.

  ‘Just tell Ben. He won’t mind.’

  ‘But he will.’ Libby looked up at Harry and sighed. ‘He really wants it. And he wants us to live there together.’ She sighed again. ‘Oh, he’s said he’ll live here until I’m ready, but that’s not what he wants.’

  Harry looked at her thoughtfully while pulling the cork from the bottle. ‘And it’s not what you want, either, is it?’

  Libby felt the colour creeping up her neck. ‘Well, it’s not ideal …’ she began.

  ‘No.’ Harry handed her the bottle. ‘If you want to talk about it, come down to the caff tomorrow. I think you’re in serious need of therapy.’

  ‘What were you and Harry talking about in the kitchen?’ asked Ben later, as they got ready for bed.

  ‘Steeple Farm,’ said Libby, without stopping to think.

  ‘Oh?’ Ben stopped taking his shirt off and turned to face her. ‘What about it?’

  Closing her eyes and cursing herself, Libby sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Come on, Lib, out with it.’ Ben sat down on the other side.

  ‘Harry wanted to know how I felt about it now.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now the renovations have started.’

  ‘They started weeks ago.’

  ‘I know. He just wondered if I was happier about it.’

  ‘Oh, so everyone knows you’re not happy, do they?’ said Ben grimly.

  Oh, dear, thought Libby, here we go. ‘No,’ she said aloud, ‘everyone – whoever everyone is – does not know I’m unhappy because I’m not.’

  ‘Go on.’ Ben settled back against the pillows, arms folded across his chest.

  ‘It’s just what I said before.’ Libby stood up and belted her dressing gown round her waist. ‘I love this cottage, and I made it what it is now. It’s all me. It’s very hard to think of leaving it.’

  ‘And you’ve discussed this with Harry?’

  ‘No!’ The colour flooded back into Libby’s cheeks. ‘He was there when it was first discussed, wasn’t he? And he knows me very well. He just sort of – picked up the – er – vibes, so to speak.’

  Ben sighed and stood up to continue undressing. ‘More than I can, then,’ he said.

  Libby escaped to the bathroom and heaved a guilty sigh of relief. It wasn’t going to turn into an argument, then. Not tonight, anyway.

  Chapter Three

  LIBBY PUSHED OPEN THE door of The Pink Geranium despite the closed sign. Donna, Harry’s waitress and second-in-command, still there after numerous offers from bigger and not necessarily better establishments, greeted her with a nod.

  ‘Harry!’ she called. ‘Libby’s here.’

  Harry, already in his chef’s checked trousers and white jacket, appeared from the kitchen wiping his hands on a tea towel.

  ‘Hello, petal. Wine or coffee?’

  Libby looked at her watch. ‘It had better be coffee, hadn’t it?’

  ‘Go on, then. Take a pew. Be with you in a minute.’

  Libby sat on the sofa in one of the windows, to the side of the front door. If she sat sideways she could see the village high street, Ahmed and Ali’s eight-til-late, Bob’s butcher’s shop and the new farm shop, squashed into a gap between the Methodist Chapel and Ivy Cottage on the other side of the road.

  ‘Have you met the people in the farm shop?’ she asked, as Harry sat down beside her and put a tray on the coffee table.

  ‘Course I have. So have you.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘They’re the people who run Cattlegreen Nurseries on the Canterbury road. Nella and Joe. Nella says they weren’t getting enough custom because people weren’t stopping.’

  ‘And is it better here?’

  ‘She says so. People in the village are trying to shop in the village and not use their cars, so fresh veg is a good move. And did you know Ahmed’s got a proper baker to deliver bread in the mornings, now?’

  ‘Really?’ Libby was impressed. ‘Where from?’

  ‘Steeple Mount, apparently. The bakery there does very well.’

  ‘Oh, I know it. Run by Diggory something. He’s a Cranston Morris man.’

  ‘Richard Diggory. He sometimes supplies me with stuff. I didn’t know he was a Morris man.’ Harry pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Might have to stop buying from him.’

  Libby laughed. ‘Go on, you don’t subscribe to the old stereotype beard and Arran sweater image!’

  ‘Well, no.’ Harry leant forward to pour coffee. ‘Rich is quite a suave individual, as it happens. Very surprising this is.’

  ‘He’s known as Diggory in Cranston Morris,’ said Libby. ‘I suppose that fits the image better than “Rich”, doesn’t it? I was introduced to him at a party
, ages ago. I’ll probably see him again on Saturday.’

  ‘You’re not going to that shenanigans?’ Harry looked appalled.

  ‘The parade? Yes. Fran and I are going.’ Libby took a sip from her thick, white mug. ‘Ben and I used to take the children years ago.’

  ‘Together?’ Harry raised his eyebrows.

  ‘No, Ben and his wife and me and Derek. Ben says we probably met, but I don’t remember.’

  ‘Which brings us neatly back to why you’re here.’ Harry leant back in the corner of the sofa. ‘Shoot.’

  Libby unnecessarily stirred her coffee.

  ‘It’s daft, really,’ she said.

  ‘So are you,’ said Harry.

  ‘Yeah, well.’ She sat up and looked at him. Faint lines were beginning to show at the corners of his blue eyes and the handsome face was just that little bit fuller than it had been a year ago. ‘You’re looking very content,’ she said.

  ‘We’re not talking about me,’ said Harry. ‘However, I am very content. I’m glad Pete and I got civilled, I have a failing restaurant and a lovely home. What more could a bloke want? Your turn.’

  ‘You know I fancied Ben when I met him over that Hop Pickers murder?’

  ‘I thought you already fancied him.’

  ‘Well, I did, sort of, but I didn’t know him very well.’ Libby looked down at her mug. ‘And I didn’t think I stood a chance, to be honest.’

  Harry’s mouth twitched. ‘Course you didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Harry!’ Libby looked up and grinned. ‘Short, plump and over fifty. Nobody’s best catch.’

  ‘Were you over fifty then? I thought you were younger.’

  ‘Flatterer.’ Libby put her mug on the table. ‘Anyway. So we got it together, briefly, like a couple of teenagers. I reckoned it was that life-affirming thing you’re supposed to do after death, you know?’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Harry.

  ‘Then we drifted apart –’

  ‘Your fault, I gather.’

  ‘All right, it probably was, but then we got back together. And it was great. Well, you know, you’ve seen us through all of it.’

  ‘But now –’ said Harry.

  ‘I think it started when he moved in.’ Libby wriggled in her seat. ‘I’ve come to realise that I like my own space.’