Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘So did Fran,’ said Harry. ‘I seem to remember she didn’t want Guy moving in when she went to Coastguard Cottage. She wanted to savour the moment.’

  ‘I reminded her of that,’ said Libby, ‘but she’s changed. She loves Guy so much.’

  ‘Which argues, petal, that you don’t love our Ben that much.’

  ‘I suppose it does,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘And now I don’t know what to do.’

  Harry cocked his head on one side. ‘I know I’m not the expert on male-female relationships, but don’t you think it’s a bit unfair that you haven’t told Ben all this?’

  Libby nodded. ‘But I don’t want to lose him,’ she said.

  ‘Now that really is dog-in-the-manger,’ said Harry. ‘I want him, but only on my terms. Compromise, gal, is the name of the game.’

  Libby sighed. ‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. Ben and I went through all this only a few weeks ago, just before Fran’s wedding. He’s compromised, he’s come to live in my cottage, when he had far more room at the Manor.’

  ‘And you feel you can’t chuck him out?’

  ‘Of course I can’t. But I feel crowded and pressurised.’

  ‘Stating the bleedin’ obvious, Steeple Farm would take care of all that, wouldn’t it? Much more space. And Ben would let you do more or less what you liked with the inside, I betcha.’ Harry sniffed. ‘You could probably even take that creaky straw sofa. And the walking stomach.’

  ‘Well, of course, I’d take Sidney,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘And my cane sofa is a statement, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘It makes enough noise,’ said Harry, getting up. ‘More coffee?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve promised Guy another pretty peep for his shop and I want to borrow Jane’s sitting room to do a preliminary sketch, so I’ve got to go to Nethergate.’

  ‘I thought you said Jane and Terry were turning that house back into one, now? Won’t that be their bedroom?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Libby, standing up. ‘She said I could use it, that’s all I know. And she’s working from home today, so I’m going over.’

  ‘They’re getting married soon, aren’t they?’ asked Harry innocently, as he opened the door for her.

  ‘Yes. Don’t start.’ Libby gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘And don’t work too hard.’

  Jane Maurice, local newspaper reporter, and her fiancé and ex-tenant, Terry Baker, lived in the beautiful, tall, terraced Peel House on Cliff Terrace, Nethergate. It looked out over Nethergate bay and gave Libby a completely different perspective for her tourist paintings which Guy claimed to sell like hot cakes.

  Jane opened the door, looking far less mouse-like than she had the previous summer when they had all been involved in some fairly hair-raising adventures. She kissed Libby’s cheek and held the door wide.

  ‘Terry at work?’ asked Libby, toiling up the stairs behind her.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘Only five days a week now. He was doing six, but I said he didn’t need to.’ She opened the door to the room at the top of the house.

  ‘I bet he didn’t like that,’ said Libby, when she’d got her breath back.

  Jane looked sheepish. ‘No, he didn’t. But there’s no mortgage on this place and I’m earning a reasonable salary, so why should he work all that overtime? I’d rather he was here with me.’

  ‘What about when the children come along, though?’ said Libby slyly.

  Jane cleared her throat and went pink. ‘We’ll have to have a rethink then,’ she said. Libby looked at her sharply, but she’d turned away.

  ‘So how’s the granny annexe going?’

  Jane sighed. ‘Mother’s being difficult.’

  ‘No surprise there, then,’ said Libby, taking out her sketch pad and pencils. Mrs Maurice was a true daughter of the nineteen fifties and bigoted into the bargain.

  ‘The flat was all right for old Mrs Finch, and we’ve already put in a new bathroom and kitchen, but she’s still saying she won’t come.’

  ‘Perhaps she just doesn’t want to leave her own home and her friends,’ said Libby, searching for the right viewpoint from the large window. ‘It’s a big step to take. I know,’ she added darkly.

  ‘You moved from somewhere the other side of Canterbury, didn’t you?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t mean that. My old home was associated with my prat of a husband, so I didn’t mind at all moving away, even though the kids were a bit uncomfortable with it.’ Libby turned an armchair to face the window. ‘I meant if I had to move from Number 17.’

  ‘But I thought you were moving?’ Jane looked surprised and Libby sighed. Everyone, as Ben had said, was indeed talking about it.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Libby. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? I’m parched.’

  ‘So what else have you done in the house?’ she asked when Jane came back with tea.

  ‘Turned the ground floor into a big kitchen and dining room, with a cloakroom, Terry’s old flat into the sitting room and main bedroom, also with a cloakroom and an en-suite for us, and this floor’s bedrooms and bathrooms. I’m using this one for an office at the moment.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Libby, through a mouthful of BB pencil.

  ‘That’s OK.’ Jane perched on the arm of another chair. ‘I wasn’t doing much. Not much to do.’

  ‘Are you covering the Cranston Morris parade on Saturday?’ Libby put down her pad and took the cup of tea.

  ‘The – oh! You mean the Steeple Mount Solstice Parade? No, one of the juniors and a photographer will do that.’ Jane frowned. ‘Cranston Morris. Wasn’t it one of their people who was stabbed at the May Day celebrations?’

  Libby nodded. ‘That’s right.’ She looked quickly at Jane. ‘Matter of fact, a friend of mine wants me to look into it.’

  ‘Oh, Libby, no!’ Jane laid a hand on her chest, looking horrified. ‘Remember what happened here?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Libby, testily. ‘But Fran and I are quite interested.’

  ‘Fran too? I thought she had more sense,’ said Jane.

  ‘Look, I’m only going to look into it as an intellectual puzzle,’ said Libby. ‘We’re not police, or private detectives or anything. It’s just people have got to know about our involvement with all these – um –’

  ‘Murders?’ suggested Jane.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Libby was uncomfortable. ‘But, don’t forget, Fran was actually asked to look into that business of the body on the island by the police.’

  ‘By Ian Connell, anyway,’ said Jane shrewdly. ‘And he wasn’t over-pleased, as I remember, when you turned up at Creekmarsh Place a couple of months ago.’

  ‘But I was asked by the owner to look into that,’ said Libby smugly.

  ‘And then asked not to.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Libby sighed. ‘Anyway, I’ve actually said I won’t look into the Green Man murder, so you needn’t worry.’

  ‘But you said Fran was interested?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby frowned. ‘To be perfectly honest, I think she’s a bit bored.’

  ‘Well, don’t let her drag you into anything,’ said Jane. ‘It was all a bit unpleasant, that murder.’

  ‘Did you cover it?’ said Libby, interested.

  Jane nodded. ‘I saw it – the Green Man, I mean.’ She shuddered. ‘Horrible.’

  ‘And hadn’t another member of the troupe, side or whatever it is, hadn’t he disappeared?’

  ‘It looked like it,’ said Jane, ‘because his car wasn’t there and wasn’t at his house, either.’

  ‘Have they found him?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘Completely disappeared, apparently. Just another missing person.’

  Libby looked out of the window over the grey-blue sea. Just another missing person, she thought. And perhaps not.

  Chapter Four

  THE PROBLEM, LIBBY TOLD herself as she drove home, was that she had no one to talk to. Except Fran, Harry and Ben, who, for different reasons, didn’t appreciate what her problem was.
She suddenly felt very alone and had to swallow hard against a painful lump in her throat.

  ‘Pitiful,’ she muttered to herself. But the feeling of ill-usage persisted. Ben (despite agreeing to stay at Number 17 for the time being) was really expecting her to live her life as he wanted it, Adam, although now living in the flat above The Pink Geranium, still tended to treat Number 17 as a hotel (and occasional laundry service) and her other children, Dominic and Belinda didn’t get in touch anywhere near as much as she would have liked. And even Fran was now cocooned in a golden halo of marriage, more suited, in Libby’s opinion, to a misty-eyed twenty-something. Although perhaps twenty-somethings were no longer misty-eyed but cynical and jaded these days.

  Sniffing and swallowing, Libby drove past the turn for Steeple Mount, deliberately not looking towards Tyne Chapel, which at one time had been the scene of not only an illegal Black Mass but a murder. Vaguely, she wondered if Black Masses and covens had anything to do with the mythology surrounding the celebrations Morris sides took so seriously. Beltane and Samhain were certainly connected with witches, weren’t they? She resolved to ask Gemma when she saw her on Saturday.

  Obeying goodness knows what perverse prompting from her subconscious, Libby turned left instead of going straight on when she reached Steeple Martin and drove slowly up the sunken lane to Steeple Farm. Two small vans and a pile of timber were all that indicated the presence of workmen, so Libby parked the car and went round to the back of the house.

  The kitchen door was open and through it Libby could hear Radio 2 quietly chuntering away.

  ‘Lib!’

  Libby swung round to face Ben, who had come up silently behind her.

  ‘Hi,’ she said weakly.

  ‘This is a nice surprise.’ He beamed at her and tucked a hand under her arm. ‘Come and see what they’ve been doing.’

  A tour of the house revealed much bare plaster work and open studwork and Libby felt her enthusiasm being very slightly rekindled.

  ‘Coming on, isn’t it?’ said Ben, as they finished up in the empty kitchen. ‘Look, they’ve just put a marble shelf in the larder.’ He pulled open the planked door.

  ‘Wow.’ Libby put her head inside. ‘I –’ she stopped herself saying “I’ve always wanted one of those.” ‘– I think it’s fantastic,’ she finished.

  ‘I remember you saying you always wanted a larder,’ said Ben. ‘How do you feel about it now?’

  ‘The house?’

  ‘Of course the house.’

  ‘It’s going to be beautiful,’ said Libby honestly. ‘It really is. What a pity Millie changed it so much.’

  Ben looked at her for a long moment. ‘But you’re still not convinced.’

  Libby felt the colour creeping up again. ‘I – er – I just need some time.’

  ‘Mm.’ Ben went to the back door. ‘OK. Do you want to see any more, or shall I see you later?’

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ said Libby, feeling absurdly guilty.

  She took a last look at the paddock, imagining it with a couple of ponies resting under the trees at the end, frowned and went back to the car.

  The answerphone light was winking when she got home.

  ‘Lib, it’s Fran. Can you give me a ring back?’

  ‘Libby it’s Jane. I found something out about that Green Man murder. Thought you’d like to know.’

  Libby stared at the phone. Life wasn’t giving her much of a chance to think about her personal problems.

  ‘I just thought I’d look up everything we had on the Green Man murder,’ said Jane, when Libby rang her. ‘Apparently they looked into that bloke’s disappearance more thoroughly than I thought.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The police talked to his ex-wife and all his close friends, but no one could say whether anything was missing from his house. His wallet and keys were gone, but not his passport, and nothing’s been heard from him since.’

  ‘Dead?’ asked Libby. ‘Is that what they think?’

  ‘According to my sources,’ said Jane, with a faint air of triumph, ‘they think he’s the murderer.’

  ‘Well, obviously,’ said Libby. ‘Sorry, Jane, but if they’ve gone to a lot of trouble and the conclusions are what you’ve just told me, it stands to reason.’

  ‘But that has never been released. He’s still listed as missing.’

  ‘And everyone concerned will have thought the same as the police, I bet,’ said Libby. ‘I wonder why Gemma didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Perhaps the people involved don’t think it’s connected?’ suggested Jane.

  ‘Or don’t want to,’ Libby mused. ‘Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps Gemma wants me to come up with an alternative theory. Well, thanks Jane. I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘You are coming to my hen night, aren’t you?’ said Jane hurriedly as Libby was about to ring off.

  Libby’s heart sank. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said brightly. ‘Next Saturday, isn’t it?’

  ‘The Saturday after,’ said Jane, ‘the 27th.’

  ‘Right. It’s on the calendar,’ lied Libby. ‘If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you then.’

  She punched in Fran’s number.

  ‘Do we have to go to Jane’s hen night?’ she asked when Fran answered.

  Fran laughed. ‘Of course we do. We were instrumental in getting those two together. Or you were, anyway.’

  ‘It’s not going to be one of those awful learner plate and white veil dos, is it? We haven’t got to get into a stretch limo and wave cheap champagne out of the roof?’

  Fran snorted. ‘Can you honestly see Jane doing that? No, it’s a very sedate evening at Anderson Place. Not many of us. A couple of Jane’s old college friends, a few from work and us.’

  ‘No Mum?’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ said Fran. ‘But I wasn’t ringing you about that.’

  ‘No, sorry, Jane rang and reminded me, that’s all. Why did you ring me?’

  ‘I was thinking about that Green Man murder.’

  Libby groaned. ‘Jane was, too.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Libby told her.

  ‘Why didn’t Gemma tell you anything about this other man?’

  Libby explained her theory.

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Fran. ‘If he was popular, they wouldn’t want to think of him as a murderer. And you wondered if he was dead?’

  ‘Yes. Well, if he hasn’t been seen or heard of, presumably that means his credit cards haven’t been used, that’s the first thing that springs to mind, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Fran slowly. ‘I was just wondering what motive he had.’

  ‘Oh!’ Libby was surprised. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘You hadn’t thought of motive?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no. I hadn’t. For either of them. I wonder if Jane knows anything.’

  ‘Don’t you go ringing her back,’ said Fran. ‘You said you didn’t want to get involved – as usual.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Libby cleared her throat. ‘It’s an intellectual puzzle.’

  ‘Hmm. Not for the Green Man’s widow, I suspect. What was his name, do you know?’

  ‘Bill something. I’ve met them all in the past. Gemma belonged to my old amateur group, and we went to parties together.’

  ‘And who is the Disappearing Man?’

  ‘No idea. I expect we’ll find out on Saturday.’

  ‘It will have been in the papers.’

  ‘It was, that’s how I knew about it,’ said Libby, ‘I just don’t remember the name. I could –’

  ‘I said, don’t phone Jane. What have you got a computer for?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Libby smiled. ‘I’ll look it up. Er – why do we want to know?’

  ‘I’ll look it up, too. We want to know before we see Gemma on Saturday so that you can confound her by telling her all the facts in the case and saying there’s nothing you can do that the police can’t.’

  ‘I’ve already told her that,’ sa
id Libby, ‘and in that case, why are we bothering to go?’

  ‘Because we’re bound to find something else out,’ said Fran.

  ‘You have changed,’ said Libby.

  The computer search yielded a plethora of news sites with everything from straight reportage to speculative ramblings about Celtic and Druidic rites and mystical vengeance. There was very little that Libby didn’t already know, except the name of the Disappearing Man, who turned out to be John Lethbridge, a divorced financial advisor, who lived in a village a little way from Steeple Mount.

  ‘Absconding with funds?’ murmured Libby.

  Monica, widow of murdered Bill Frensham, was reported to be devastated, and her two student children had returned home to be with her.

  ‘I hope neither of them was due to take finals,’ thought Libby.

  There were several theories about the celebration of Beltane, a festival that seemed to be based largely on sex, as far as Libby could see. At midnight on May 1st something called “need-fire” was lit to be carried back to the houses of the faithful (make that members of Cranston Morris, thought Libby) to light the fire to keep the house warm for the rest of the year and purify the cattle. Seeds were planted and courting rituals took place, all to ensure fertility for the coming season. There were earnest articles on the blood-letting which could be said to be the ultimate fertility rite and some which denounced the whole incident as a put-up job to call the whole of Druidism, Paganism and Celticism into disrepute.

  It was all hugely interesting, thought Libby, but what Gemma thought she could do she had no idea. In this case, more so than in any other she had been involved with, she had no legitimate interest, and neither did Fran. And Fran hadn’t even felt the slightest flutter of her psychic wings which had been so necessary in other cases, and the reason that the police, in the shape of Detective Inspector Ian Connell, as Jane had reminded her, had asked for her help.

  Nevertheless, she and Fran would go to the Solstice Parade and talk to Gemma. It would be a day away from Steeple Martin at worst, and might turn up something interesting at best. Although being away from Steeple Martin might turn out to be the best of it after all, Libby thought, and went to put the kettle on.