Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘And how long has it been going on?’ asked Lewis.

  ‘Like this, ten years or so.’

  ‘Like this? What happened before then?’

  ‘No one remembered it.’

  ‘So who revived it?’

  ‘We remembered it.’ The voice deepened, grew more gravelly, and Boysie made a face, leaning forward.

  ‘We? Would that be you and Mr Malahyde?’

  ‘Malahyde built the first wheel,’ said Bernie Lee.

  Lewis was beginning to sweat. Bernie Lee was not exactly forthcoming. ‘Well, thank you Mr Lee,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could talk to Mr Malahyde now?’

  But Bernie Lee was gone, already disappearing into the wood, only a slightly denser black than himself.

  ‘Romanichal,’ said Boysie, doing something complicated to his equipment.

  ‘What?’ said Lewis and Libby together.

  ‘Gypsies. Romanies. That’s what he meant.’

  ‘What he meant what?’ said Lewis.

  ‘When he said “we”.’ Boysie stood up straight. ‘Anyone for a beer?’

  ‘He’s Romany?’ said Libby, handing over her reflector. ‘Did you hear that, Gem?’

  Gemma had followed Libby to the interview site and hovered in the background. She nodded.

  ‘I didn’t know Gypsies believed in Celtic or Pagan religions,’ said Libby, frowning. ‘I thought they were descended from far-eastern tribes.’

  ‘I thought it was Romania,’ said Gemma hesitantly.

  ‘They got there a bit later, I fancy,’ said Libby. ‘Didn’t they, Boysie?’

  The others all looked at him. He grinned at Libby.

  ‘Far as I know,’ he said.

  ‘You?’ Lewis stared.

  ‘Course. There’s lots of us around,’ said Boysie. ‘Even Michael Caine.’

  Lewis spluttered and Libby and Jerry laughed.

  ‘True. His dad was a Romanichal. And Charlie Chaplin. And Elvis.’

  ‘Elvis!’ they chorused.

  ‘His family were descended from English Romanichals.’ He looked round at the rapt faces. ‘Come on. I want a beer.’

  Lewis shook his head. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It looks like it’s true,’ said Libby. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I still can’t catch up with that Malahyde bloke. I reckon he’s the one I need to talk to.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t really buy the Gypsy’s Warning back there. It was a bit too pat. Yes, I’m sure Bernie Lee’s a Romany, but I don’t believe it was tribe memory that reinvented the old Mannan man. I think it was Mr Malahyde, with a bit of help from his friend Bernie.’

  ‘For profit? The old moolah?’

  ‘Maybe he really does believe all the mumbo-jumbo.’ Libby fell into step. ‘Perhaps he was just looking for a hook to hang it on. Mannan man doesn’t come from here, after all.’

  ‘You know more about it than I do,’ grumbled Lewis.

  ‘Um,’ said Gemma, bringing up the rear. Libby turned. ‘What, Gem?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone knows why it was started here. It just sort of sprang up.’

  ‘Who said that?’ asked Lewis. ‘Sorry, you’re Gemma, aren’t you? Nice to meet you.’ He thrust a hand at Gemma who took it gingerly.

  ‘Um,’ she said again. ‘Well, it was Bill Frensham, actually. He –’

  ‘I know, he was the one who was murdered.’ Lewis nodded.

  ‘Well, he was the one who started coming down here. I told Libby, I think. And he said it just grew up.’

  ‘And you’ve been coming how long?’

  ‘Only two years,’ said Gemma. ‘I don’t know much about it.’

  ‘You must know where to find this Malahyde, though?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Gemma shook her head. ‘Only his shop. Although,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder, ‘I expect he’s in the wood with the rest of them now.’

  ‘This the sacrifice business?’ said Lewis to Libby.

  ‘That’s what they put about,’ said Libby. ‘Have you heard anybody else talk about it?’

  ‘No one does,’ said Gemma, firmly for once. ‘You won’t get anyone to talk about it.’

  Lewis regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Hmmm,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Libby. ‘Let’s see if Boysie’s managed to get to the bar. Are you coming with us, Gem, or are you going to find Dan?’

  ‘I’ll – er – I’d better go and find Dan,’ said Gemma, searching the crowd with worried eyes. ‘I hope he hasn’t gone off with Richard.’

  ‘Who is one of those who disappears into the wood for dubious pleasures,’ said Libby, watching her friend weaving in and out of the throng in her Goddess dress.

  ‘So what do you think’s going on?’ said Lewis, as they battled their way through the beer tent towards Boysie, whose dark head could be seen over nearly everyone else’s.

  ‘With this festival?’ said Libby. ‘I just think this guy Florian Malahyde started it up having probably had an interest in esoteric stuff –’

  ‘Esso what?’

  ‘Esoteric – it means secret and meant only to be understood by a few. More or less.’

  ‘So that’s what all this Mannan stuff is?’

  ‘All the Celtic, Pagan and Wiccan stuff, yes. I think he – or they – have mixed it all up to make a special legend for this village, and now they’re capitalising on it. Whether there was ever an ulterior motive to it or not, I wouldn’t know.’ Libby accepted a slopping plastic glass of lager from Jerry. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t know any of it, I’m only guessing.’ She took a sip of slightly warm beer. ‘But knowing that Cranston Morris have made up certain parts of their own rituals, I should think that’s what most of them do.’

  ‘What about them Goat’s Head lot?’ said Boysie. ‘Reckon they’re Romani?’

  ‘Do you?’ asked Libby.

  ‘He is.’ Boysie jerked his head in the general direction of the woods. ‘The rest of them, don’t know.’

  ‘Well, whatever they are, I don’t suppose you’ll get anything more tonight. You’ve got enough to cut together haven’t you?’ said Jerry.

  ‘Yeah, and we’ve got the second part in the morning,’ said Lewis, sipping at a flat lemonade. ‘Yuck. Can we go back and have a civilised drink at the pub?’

  ‘Give us a chance,’ said Jerry. ‘I haven’t even started my beer. You go, if you want to.’

  ‘I’ll come with you if you’ll hang on a minute,’ said Libby, not wanting to upset Boysie by wasting her warm lager. ‘That is, if you’re sure you actually want a drink.’

  ‘A cuppa would be nice,’ sighed Lewis. ‘Sad git, aren’t I?’

  Ten minutes later, burping slightly, Libby was following Lewis back down the path to the jetty.

  ‘So, was it worth it?’ she asked, panting.

  ‘Yeah.’ Lewis stopped and waited for her. ‘Not sure about this on location stuff though.’

  ‘You’ve done it before,’ said Libby. ‘You do it at your own house.’

  ‘S’different, innit? I’ve got a team of cameramen and directors and continuity people then. I’ve had to do all this on me own.’

  ‘But it’ll go to the editors and the director when we get back,’ said Libby. ‘They’ll cut it about until it’s right.’

  ‘They’ll probably cut it all,’ said Lewis gloomily. ‘I expect it’s crap.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Libby. ‘It’s only going to be a short piece within a programme anyway, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Lewis shrugged. ‘Oh, well, I gave it me best shot, didn’t I?’

  ‘Course you did.’ Libby looked down at the little boats in the harbour. ‘But you haven’t enjoyed it.’

  ‘No.’ Lewis sighed. ‘I’m a city boy, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes. Except when you’re at Creekmarsh.’ Libby led the way across the square to the Portherriot Arms. ‘And I still don’t really know why you wanted to come down here.’


  ‘Told you,’ said Lewis, collapsing onto one of the comfortable window seats in the almost empty bar. ‘After all that solstice stuff I wanted to find another folky type thing I could feature. It’s colourful and interesting. So I found this one.’

  ‘Are you sure it was nothing to do with Adam wanting me to go away?’

  ‘Do I look like some kind of charity?’ said Lewis indignantly

  Libby smiled across at Mr Jones, who had appeared behind the bar looking harassed. ‘Could we have a tonic water and a lager, please?’ she called.

  He turned without a word to collect glasses and Libby, with a grimace at Lewis, stood up and went over to the bar.

  ‘Busy tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘Hardly anybody. All up at Mannan Night, aren’t they?’ Mr Jones turned round with the tonic water and a glass before pulling the pump back on the lager. ‘Including my barmen.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Libby. ‘We saw them in the beer tent. They were run off their feet.’

  ‘That’s some consolation,’ said Mr Jones. ‘I haven’t set it all up for nothing.’

  ‘Do you always do the beer tent?’ asked Libby, handing over the money.

  Mr Jones shook his head. ‘First time. Malahyde organised it before with someone he knew. Let him down this year, so I was told.’

  ‘Did he actually come and ask you?’ said Libby. ‘He seems not to talk to anybody normally.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Mr Jones. ‘He sent some secretary person down.’

  ‘Not Bernie Lee?’

  ‘Not Bernie Lee. He wouldn’t come in here to ask me anything.’

  ‘So who do you suppose the secretary person was?’ Libby asked Lewis when she got back to their table. ‘The one you spoke to?’

  ‘Must have been. But, I said, it wasn’t me, it was Shannon.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Couldn’t we find a name? You must have one.’

  ‘I’ll look on me laptop in the morning,’ said Lewis. ‘Tonight I’m too perishin’ tired.’

  ‘Right,’ said Libby.

  Over breakfast next morning, Lewis told them he’d found the contact Shannon had made before they came down.

  ‘Did you phone her?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Course I did.’ Lewis looked a bit shamefaced. ‘She was a bit cross. She’d given me all the details before we left.’

  ‘And you hadn’t bothered to look?’ said Libby. Jerry and Boysie looked at one another and rolled their eyes.

  ‘Yeah, well, it was all a bit of a rush.’

  ‘And you would have got a lot further if you’d got in touch with this person as soon as we arrived, wouldn’t you?’ said Libby. ‘Have you called him yet?’

  ‘Er – no. I thought it was a bit early.’

  ‘Oh, Lewis!’ Libby was exasperated. ‘If this person – he or she? – she, then, is involved with the celebrations, she’ll be long gone. What’s her name?’

  Lewis looked even more shamefaced. ‘Amynta Malahyde.’

  ‘His wife?’ Libby, Jerry and Boysie said together.

  Lewis shrugged. ‘Dunno. Got a phone number though.’

  ‘Well, ring it!’ commanded Libby. ‘Honestly, Lewis.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ Lewis grinned at her. He stood up and went to the other end of the restaurant to make the call. Libby, watching, with relief, saw him begin to speak. It wasn’t too late, then.

  ‘Ceremony starts at 10.’ Lewis pulled a face. ‘It’s his sister. Said she wondered why I hadn’t been in touch yesterday.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell her you’d spoken to her brother and Bernie Lee?’

  ‘Oh yes. She didn’t sound too pleased.’ Lewis sighed and sat down again. ‘I said I’d see her up there.’

  ‘Wasn’t she there last night?’ persisted Libby. ‘She must have been.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Lewis frowned at her. ‘I didn’t go into the whys and wherefores. You can come and ask her if you’re so mad to know about it.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Libby. ‘Only curious.’ She darted a glance at Jerry and Boysie who were both continuing to eat imperturbably. ‘Aren’t you?’ she said.

  They looked up, surprised. ‘No,’ they said together.

  However, when they arrived at the top of the cliff once more, all of the party were as keen to see Amynta Malahyde as Libby was.

  She turned out to be a lady of indeterminate age, hung about with many beads and velvet scarves. Her wispy fair hair wafted gently in the cliff-top breeze and her forehead was creased with worry.

  ‘My brother doesn’t speak to people,’ she said on being greeted by Lewis. ‘Your young woman should have told you that.’

  ‘Only if you told her,’ said Libby. Ms Malahyde looked astonished at being addressed and shook her head vaguely.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I only make the arrangements. I thought she knew all about the festival.’ She drew herself up and waved a regal hand over the brightly coloured scene. ‘Mannan is famous.’

  ‘In this part of Cornwall, maybe,’ said Libby, ‘but not in London or Kent.’

  Ms Malahyde looked even more shocked and Lewis jumped in before Libby could offend her any further.

  ‘We need to know everything about it from you, Mrs – er – ma’am. Would you be prepared to speak on camera?’

  Amynta Malahyde preened and gave Libby a triumphant look. Libby subsided and sat down on the grass to listen.

  It was as she had thought, reading between the lines. The Malahydes had both been members of some kind of pseudo-religious organisation and had incorporated some of its more esoteric (as Libby had said) ideas into the cult of Mannan, which they had lifted wholesale from the sea god of the Isle of Man. Amynta clammed up when asked about their other rituals, and when Lewis, greatly daring, happened to mention the sacrifices connected with the worship of the sea god, she became positively sibylline. Eventually, Lewis asked about the morning’s activities, and they were pointed over to where a gathering was forming on the cliff edge.

  ‘Looks a bit dangerous,’ said Jerry.

  ‘There are railings,’ said Amynta, in a voice which suggested a soul above railings.

  After she left, presumably to go and attend her brother, the little group made their way to the cliff edge, where, as Amynta had promised, there were railings. A moveable section which had obviously been moved last night to allow the passage of the wheel was now firmly in place, and at intervals along the barrier stood burly-looking stewards in yellow jackets.

  ‘I didn’t see any of them last night,’ whispered Libby to Boysie as they established themselves in a good position.

  ‘Yeah, they were there,’ said Boysie. ‘Kept outa sight, though. Spoil the moment, wouldn’t they? Doesn’t matter so much this morning, in the bright light o’day.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, much struck. ‘Of course.’

  A slight diminution in the hubbub around them signalled the arrival of Florian Malahyde, once again in his arch-wizard costume, followed this time by Amynta, her hand on the arm of Bernie Lee whose black costume looked strangely bland in the sunlight. Boysie tried to edge nearer to catch Malahyde’s words, which were flung away on the wind. Jerry was moving slowly with his heavy camera and Lewis was practically jumping up and down with frustration.

  Eventually, a group of men, presumably last night’s Morris Men in mufti, went forward and began to wind what looked like a sort of winch. The crowd watched in silence as slowly, bit by bit, the charred remains of the wheel rose into view. A cheer rose up, Malahyde spoke a few more words, and somewhere in the background a band, apparently made up of accordions and fiddles, struck up.

  ‘That appears to be that,’ said Libby.

  Lewis growled. ‘I’ll have to get a few comments,’ he said. ‘Can’t leave it like that. Did you get it, Jer?’

  Jerry nodded. ‘Don’t know what Boysie’ll have got, though. Bloody wind.’

  Boysie agreed morosely.

  ‘Well, I’m going to find Gemma to say goodbye and then I su
ppose we begin to make tracks for home?’ said Libby.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll have another go at the black goat and old Merlin, and see you back at the pub in a bit.’ Lewis made a face and set off through the crowd, followed by Jerry and Boysie.

  Gemma was in her camper van.

  ‘Hiya,’ said Libby, following her knock inside. ‘I just popped by to say goodbye.’

  Gemma nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘What’s up, Gem?’ Libby sat down on the bench beside her. ‘You don’t look happy.’

  Gemma’s eyes seemed to refocus on her friend. ‘I told you what would happen,’ she said, in a voice that sounded as though it was rusty from disuse.

  ‘What do you mean? What happened?’

  ‘This morning. On my step.’

  ‘What?’ Libby wanted to shake her.

  ‘A rabbit and a chicken.’ Gemma gulped. ‘With no heads.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘AH.’ LIBBY REPRESSED A shudder of revulsion. ‘So, sacrifice, you think?’

  ‘I told you.’ Gemma was angry now. ‘You didn’t believe me. And someone thinks I’ve been talking to you and this was a warning.’

  ‘Why on earth should it be? Why couldn’t it be something to do with Dan?’

  ‘He hasn’t talked to anybody.’

  ‘And had he gone off with Diggory and the others into the wood last night?’

  ‘No! He was in the beer tent over the other side from where you were. Only Diggory and a couple of others had gone off with those awful goat people.’ Gemma put her head in her hands. ‘He’s gone to show them all the – the –’

  ‘Bodies?’ suggested Libby helpfully. Gemma gave her a look of dislike.

  ‘Well, I’m really sorry, Gemma, but perhaps you shouldn’t have wanted to talk to me in the first place. You’ve certainly done a complete about-face.’ Libby stood up. ‘Say goodbye to Dan for me.’

  And that’s that, thought Libby, as she went back down the path to the jetty. All very interesting and a bit silly. It looked very much as though, in previous years, a few members of Cranston Morris, Bill Frensham, John Lethbridge and Richard Diggory among them, had hooked up with Goat’s Head Morris and probably Florian Malahyde while attending the Mannan Night festivities and disappeared to join in with whatever unsavoury high jinks went on under the unlikely patronage of the sea god. She thought fleetingly of the black mass held at Tyne Chapel a couple of years ago and wondered if it was the same misguided people involved. Anything as an excuse for some seriously skewed sexual shenanigans.