Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  The sight at the top was impressive. To one side stood the dancers and musicians, the accordionist and fiddler, to the other, several figures in long white robes, (Druids? wondered Libby) and in the centre, the fully clad Kings, Oak and Holly. And between them, to Libby’s surprise, a female figure festooned in summer vegetation. The Goddess, the Earth Mother, obviously.

  Libby stopped on the outskirts of the crowd and looked round. She saw the Mayor, looking uncomfortable with his chain of office sitting on top of a lightweight linen jacket, a gaggle of local press photographers, two of whom she recognised, and other members of Cranston Morris, the women in their traditional peasant girl costumes.

  The sky began to get lighter and the Oak King began to speak. In spite of a certain amount of scepticism, or possibly cynicism, Libby found it impressive. As the light increased, so the two kings took up their positions, and as the sun weakly penetrated the cloud, they began to fight. It was a purely symbolic fight with staves, but to Libby it was chilling. As the Oak King fell, the Holly King took the Goddess by the arm and they ceremonially began a descent of the Mount. Behind them the dancers fell into formation, the musicians struck up, and the whole procession moved off, amid flashing cameras. The solstice song was sung again, and this time, Libby found herself remembering the words.

  ‘Enjoy that?’ Richard Diggory, mask hooked on to his belt, came up behind her, wiping his brow.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Libby. ‘Do you ever hurt yourselves? Those staves must weigh a ton.’

  ‘We’re used to it. Dan isn’t as – shall we say, committed? – as Bill was.’

  ‘Doesn’t hit so hard, you mean?’

  Richard looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Libby,’ said another voice at her shoulder. She swung round.

  ‘Ian! What on earth are you doing here?’

  Detective Inspector Ian Connell’s black eyebrows were, as usual, drawn down over his equally dark eyes. ‘The same as you, probably,’ he said.

  Libby started. Aware of Richard Diggory on her other side, she shook her head. ‘I – er – doubt it,’ she said.

  ‘I was watching the sunrise celebrations,’ said Ian. ‘Weren’t you?’

  Confounded, Libby gave a shaky laugh. ‘Oh, of course.’ She darted a look at Richard Diggory who had dropped behind and was watching thoughtfully. ‘Do you know Ian Connell, Richard?’

  ‘Detective Inspector.’ Richard inclined his head. ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘Oh.’ Feeling foolish, Libby realised that a) Ian was probably here to keep a watching brief over Cranston Morris and b) that if so, Diggory would have been questioned by him after Bill’s death.

  ‘Mr Diggory.’ Ian’s own head bent slightly in acknowledgement. ‘Are you going home now, Libby? Have you got your car?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Libby. ‘I didn’t walk from Steeple Martin.’

  ‘I didn’t suggest you did,’ said Ian equably. ‘I thought someone else might have given you a lift.’

  ‘Fran’s not here,’ said Libby, and could have bitten her tongue out.

  ‘No.’ Libby could have sworn Ian’s mouth quirked in a smile. ‘I was merely going to offer you a lift if you needed one.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks, Ian. No, I’m fine. The car’s in the car park.’

  ‘You’re not still driving that rattletrap Renault, are you?’

  ‘Romeo’s very reliable,’ defended Libby, crossing her fingers.

  ‘If you say so,’ said Ian, with a proper smile this time. ‘I’ll say goodbye then.’

  Libby watched him stride off down the hill and wondered what he had really been doing here.

  ‘So you know the saturnine inspector?’ Richard Diggory said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Libby turned wide eyes on Diggory. ‘What business is it of yours?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just wondered. Given your reputation and his.’

  ‘Reputation?’

  ‘Both investigators – of a sort.’ Diggory gave a sly smile and veered off to his right. ‘Got to go and join the others. See you around.’

  Libby scowled and stomped off down the hill.

  ‘Libby!’

  ‘Good God,’ muttered Libby and turned round to see Gemma hurrying down the hill after her, clad, surprisingly, in the draperies and vegetation of the Goddess.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was you under all that stuff,’ said Libby, waiting for Gemma to catch up with her. ‘I thought it was all very impressive.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gemma breathlessly. ‘I didn’t think you were coming.’

  ‘I wasn’t, but I couldn’t sleep. Seemed like a good opportunity.’

  ‘You haven’t talked to anybody, though?’

  ‘Gem, I didn’t say I would. Richard Diggory talked to me, though.’ Libby pulled a face.

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘Do you?’ Libby raised her eyebrows. Gemma blushed. ‘Oh, dear. Well, far be it from me –’

  ‘But stay away,’ finished Gemma on a sigh. ‘I know. It’s so flattering, though.’

  ‘How long has he been – what? Flirting with you? Or is it more than that?’

  ‘Oh, only while we’ve been preparing for this weekend, really. Because we did the King and the Goddess together.’ Gemma looked away. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  It does to you, thought Libby. Oh, dear.

  ‘How long have you been the Goddess?’ she said aloud.

  ‘Only this year. Willy Lethbridge used to do it.’

  ‘Willy? Wilhelmina?’

  ‘Yes. Even after they split up, they were both still members of the group. Willy only really did the Goddess, though. She always used to do the May Day parade, too, although she didn’t this year.’

  ‘So did you do it because you’re Dan’s wife?’

  ‘They all thought it made sense. Bill’s wife Monica never used to do it, though. She’s never been a member of the group.’

  ‘What’s she like?’ asked Libby, as they resumed a path down the hill.

  ‘Monica?’ Gemma frowned. ‘I don’t really know her. Quiet. Didn’t like being on show. She never even came to May Day or the Solstice.’

  ‘So she never joined in socially?’

  ‘Oh, yes, parties and things, and she even came to the pub after practice nights sometimes. A bit clingy, I always thought.’

  ‘She must be devastated, then,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, she is,’ nodded Gemma. ‘She wouldn’t see anyone after the murder, and she very nearly collapsed at the funeral. The children looked after her, but she didn’t appear at the wake.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Oh, at their house. But the daughter – Julie, is it? – came down and said we were to carry on, it was what Dad would have wanted.’

  ‘Poor kid. So did you?’

  ‘We tried, but it was all too sad. Some of the other girls and I cleared it all up and we sort of crept away.’

  ‘Have you seen her since?’

  ‘No. No reason to, really. I suppose if they ever find out who – um – did it, we might see her.’

  ‘Where though?’ asked Libby. ‘Still no reason to see her, I would have thought.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Gemma nodded again. ‘Oh – and by the way, did you see the police were here today?’

  ‘I saw Ian Connell,’ said Libby.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Connell. Was he in charge of the investigation into Bill’s death?’

  ‘Is he the very dark, sort of Celtic-looking bloke?’

  ‘That’s him.’ Libby smiled. ‘Fancied my friend Fran for a time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said no,’ said Gemma, with a grin.

  ‘She was in two minds at first,’ said Libby, with an answering grin, ‘but true love weighed, as they say, and now she’s married to lovely Guy.’

  ‘That’s not Guy Wolfe? The artist?’

  �
��The smallness of this part of the world never ceases to amaze me,’ said Libby. ‘How do you know Guy?’

  ‘Well, he’s sort of famous, isn’t he? And he painted the dancers once, a few years ago. It was in the Royal Academy.’

  ‘No! Really? Wow!’ Libby was impressed.

  ‘It was in the papers and everything,’ said Gemma seriously. ‘But I think it was before you moved to Steeple Martin, so you might not have seen it.’

  ‘I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it,’ said Libby. ‘I knew Guy long before I moved here. He’s been selling my pretty peeps for some time.’

  ‘Your –? Oh, yes, you paint, too, don’t you?’

  ‘Not as much as I used too, but yes. I do.’

  ‘And do you still act? I haven’t done anything with the old Players for ages.’

  ‘Occasionally,’ said Libby. ‘I’m involved with our theatre in Steeple Martin now.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. You had that murder, didn’t you? That was the first one you investigated.’

  ‘Look, Gem,’ said Libby, standing still and turning to face her, ‘I don’t investigate murders. I’m not a private detective, or, God help me, a Miss Marple. That first time we were all suspects and it involved a lot of my close friends. My friend Fran came to help because she’s –’

  ‘Psychic, yes, I know,’ said Gemma.

  ‘And then her own aunt was murdered. After that, because she has this strange sort of – well, power, I suppose – the police asked her to help. And I helped her. That’s all.’

  ‘But there was that business over at Creekmarsh a few weeks ago, wasn’t there?’

  ‘My son Adam was working there.’ Libby began walking again. ‘Still is, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Really?’ Gemma looked interested. ‘So what’s Lewis Osbourne-Walker like? He’s gay, isn’t he?’

  Libby sighed gustily. ‘Yes, he is, and he’s a lovely bloke. Quite gorgeous to look at, of course.’

  ‘Right,’ said Gemma doubtfully.

  ‘Oh, come on, Gemma! Surely you aren’t homophobic?’

  Libby watched unlovely colour flood Gemma’s face. ‘Of course I’m not,’ she said. ‘I just –’

  ‘What?’ said Libby, now determined to make Gemma squirm. ‘Just what? Don’t know any?’

  ‘I –’ Gemma seemed to dry up.

  ‘I expect you do,’ said Libby. ‘You just don’t know you do. They are perfectly ordinary people, like you or me. They don’t have a badge, or the mark of Cain. They just happen to have a different sexual orientation, and when I think how long and how effective their fight for non-discrimination has been, it makes me absolutely –’

  ‘All right, all right!’ broke in Gemma, as Libby’s voice got louder and louder. ‘Sorry. I guess I still haven’t broken away from my parents’ 1950s mentality.’

  ‘A lot of people haven’t,’ grumbled Libby, quietening down. ‘And I really, really object to making a fuss about it when no fuss should be needed.’

  ‘I know.’ Gemma placed a hand on Libby’s arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

  They walked to the bottom of the hill in silence.

  ‘Right, I’m off home for breakfast,’ said Libby. ‘I hope the rest of the day goes well.’

  ‘And are you going to …’ Gemma trailed off.

  ‘Look into Bill’s death after all?’ Libby sighed. ‘If Fran gets any sort of feeling about it, maybe. But that’s all, Gemma.’

  Shaking her head, Libby stomped off down the high street towards the car park, trying to subdue the investigating imp that was bouncing up and down beside her. Fumbling in her pocket for her keys and realising she was now too warm, she arrived at her car. Unwinding the scarves with relief, she got in and started the engine.

  ‘Well?’ said a dark brown voice at the window. Libby screamed.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘IAN!’ HEART THUMPING, LIBBY wound down the window. ‘You scared me to death.’

  Ian looked sceptical. ‘Am I going to get in, or are you getting out?’

  Libby sighed, leant across and unlocked the passenger door. Ian folded himself inside and turned to face her. ‘Well?’ he said again.

  ‘Well what?’ Libby swallowed.

  ‘I assume you were there for the same reason I was?’

  ‘Watching the sunrise,’ said Libby, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘Bollocks. You’re interfering again.’

  ‘Ian!’ Libby’s voice trembled on the verge of a laugh. ‘Are you swearing on duty?’

  ‘I’d like to do a lot more than that on duty,’ said Ian glowering at her.

  ‘La, sir!’ said Libby, and fluttered her eyelashes.

  ‘Shut up, Libby.’ Ian took a deep breath. ‘Are you interfering in Bill Frensham’s murder?’

  Libby turned to face him. ‘No, Ian. Gemma Baverstock asked me to, but I said no. I am not an investigator.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Ian, ‘but that hasn’t stopped you before. What about Fran?’

  Libby wriggled in her seat. ‘She came with me to the parade yesterday.’

  Ian’s brows drew down even more than before. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said.

  ‘No – she hasn’t had any moments,’ said Libby hastily, ‘she’s just a bit bored.’

  Ian’s brows flew up. ‘Bored? She’s only just back from honeymoon!’

  ‘Ah – um – that’s the trouble,’ floundered Libby. ‘Guy’s had to go back to work, Sophie’s gone off to Europe and she’s got nothing to do. Before the wedding there was all the preparation and – well –’

  ‘Your little investigation at Creekmarsh,’ Ian finished for her. ‘Yes.’ He settled himself more firmly in his seat. ‘Now listen. We have been investigating Bill Frensham’s murder for nearly two months –’

  ‘And John Lethbridge’s?’

  Ian let out a breath. ‘There, you see? You already know about that.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was dead,’ said Libby innocently.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Ian testily, ‘I meant you know about Lethbridge’s disappearance, presumably.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And is there anything else you know?’

  ‘No more than you,’ said Libby, looking out of the windscreen.

  ‘Libby.’ Ian took hold of her chin and turned her to face him. She blinked. ‘Now listen. Don’t go barging in to this investigation. It’s complicated and fairly wide-ranging and nothing to do with you.’

  Libby opened her mouth.

  ‘No,’ said Ian. ‘Don’t speak. I’m not saying that if Fran has some sort of vision about it I wouldn’t be willing to listen, but that’s it. Understand me?’ He shook her chin a little for emphasis. She nodded, or tried to.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said patronisingly, and patted her cheek, opening the door with his other hand. ‘Now off you go back to your Ben.’

  Libby stared after him open-mouthed, forgetting to be annoyed about his uncharacteristic chauvinism. No wonder Fran had nearly been seduced by him.

  ‘I’m going on a diet,’ said Libby to Fran over the phone later in the morning. ‘I’m far too fat.’

  ‘You’ve been saying that for ages,’ said Fran. ‘What’s changed suddenly?’

  ‘I got very out of breath climbing the Mount.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘No, this morning,’ said Libby.

  ‘You went to the sunrise?’ Fran’s voice rose. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Libby explained about waking early. ‘I couldn’t ring you at that time in the morning, could I?’

  ‘No,’ said Fran grudgingly. ‘So what happened?’

  Libby told her.

  ‘And Ian’s warned us off in no uncertain terms,’ she finished. ‘Unless you have a spectacular moment about it all.’

  ‘So what’s new?’ said Fran. ‘We’ve been warned off every time.’

  ‘Except when he’s asked for your help.’

  ‘Yes, but he only ever wants limited help,’ said Fran. ‘And we ha
ve got into trouble in the past.’

  ‘I have, anyway,’ said Libby, settling on the bottom stair more comfortably. ‘You’re more sensible.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Fran didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Come on, Fran! Are you still bored?’

  ‘I suppose I am a bit,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘Although today we’re going to Chrissie and Brucie baby’s for lunch. That won’t be boring.’

  ‘Blimey! That’s brave of Guy!’

  ‘She is my daughter, when all’s said and done,’ said Fran, ‘and I mean to start building bridges.’

  ‘Even after they were so awful while you were away?’

  ‘I’m going to tackle that over lunch,’ said Fran. ‘Then after I’ve talked to her, I shall go up to London and see Lucy.’

  ‘Well, if you have any flashes of intuition don’t forget to let me know.’

  ‘I’ll phone Ian direct,’ said Fran, ‘then you needn’t get involved.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby, feeling a nasty little worm of disappointment. ‘OK.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Ben, rustling the Sunday papers at her from the sofa.

  Libby sighed and told him.

  ‘You want to investigate, don’t you?’ Ben put the paper down.

  ‘Not really,’ lied Libby. ‘Fran said she did, the other day. She’ll talk to Ian if she thinks of anything.’

  ‘And today they’re going to lunch with her daughter?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t know how Guy can bear it.’

  ‘Well, I put up with your lot,’ grinned Ben.

  ‘Very true.’ Libby nodded seriously. ‘And I put up with your dreadful family.’

  Ben laughed. ‘How about us having lunch with them, then?’ he said. ‘Shall I phone Mum?’

  ‘If you like,’ said Libby, brightening at the thought of not having to cook Sunday lunch. ‘Will she mind?’

  ‘Of course she won’t. You know she’d feed us every day if we’d let her.’

  Two hours later, when Ben and Libby arrived at the Manor, Libby wasn’t surprised to find her son Adam already there, together with Peter, Harry and Peter’s younger brother James.

  ‘Turned it into a party, then, Mum?’ said Ben, kissing Hetty’s cheek.

  ‘Caff closed today?’ said Libby, as Harry gave her a hug.

  ‘No bookings. So when Het called we decided to make a break for it.’