Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  In which case, she said to herself, leaning on the little harbour wall, had it spilled over into real life when they got home, causing Bill Frensham’s murder by John Lethbridge?

  ‘No,’ she said aloud. It surely wouldn’t have taken from last Mannan Night to May Day this year for that sort of ill-feeling to bubble up.

  Unless, she thought, resuming her walk towards the Portherriot Arms, something had happened, like a relationship started on Mannan Night which had then continued in secret when they went back to Kent. And then been found out. But that could only mean Bill Frensham’s relationship with someone that affected John Lethbridge.

  What was it Gemma had said about Lethbridge’s wife? Wilhelmina, or Willy, who had been the previous goddess. And who had left John. A light bulb went on in Libby’s head. Willy and Bill Frensham! And John had found out and killed Bill before disappearing himself.

  But, she said to herself as she climbed the stairs to her room to fetch her suitcase, Ian would have thought of all this. And he didn’t seem to be pursuing that line of enquiry as far as she could see. Sighing, she checked drawers and wardrobe and went downstairs.

  Lewis, Jerry and Boysie joined her in the bar after a few minutes.

  ‘Got a few words with that Malahyde person at last,’ said Lewis. ‘Not that it helped much.’

  Libby told them about the headless rabbit and chicken.

  ‘Someone trying to tell her something,’ said Lewis. ‘Couldn’t we talk to her about that?’

  ‘No, we couldn’t,’ said Libby decisively.

  ‘Put her off the scent,’ said Boysie.

  ‘Chicken and rabbit,’ said Jerry with a grin, flapping his arms. ‘Cluck-cluck.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t think of that,’ said Libby. ‘You mean “you’re a scaredy cat” sort of message instead of a “put you off the scent” message.’

  Jerry shrugged. ‘Whatever. Doesn’t matter, does it?’

  ‘No,’ Libby said thoughtfully.

  Eventually, half an hour later, the bill settled and the two vehicles loaded up, they began the long journey back to Kent, or, in Jerry’s and Boysie’s case, back to London. They stopped on the cliff top where they had stopped on the way in and got out for one last look at Portherriot. On the other headland they could see the bright colours and hear the faint music of the fairground, and just make out the blackened wheel re-mounted on its dais. Jerry got out the camera and took a last panning shot, then nodded with satisfaction and climbed back into the driving seat.

  ‘See you,’ he said. Boysie raised a hand and they drove off.

  ‘I don’t reckon I did a very good job,’ said Lewis.

  ‘Why? You got as much as you could out of people, and Jerry got a lot on camera. As I said, it’ll be edited down anyway.’

  Lewis shrugged. ‘Yeah.’ He turned and gave her a grin. ‘Did me best, didn’t I? come on then, Mum. Time to go home.’

  The journey home seemed endless. They stopped at the first service station they came to after joining the M4 and bought an indifferent meat pie, which Lewis insisted on eating in the car as he’d been recognised. Libby wandered round looking at the books, bought a magazine and a bar of chocolate, then they were on their way again.

  ‘So,’ said Lewis once they were on the M26, ‘did you find anything out about your murder?’

  ‘Eh?’ Libby turned to look at him in surprise. ‘I thought I was being taken away to stop me looking into it.’

  ‘I told you, that had nothing to do with it. But I thought you’d have a poke about as your mates were down there.’

  ‘Well, apart from Gemma being spooked by all the sacrifice stories and then her headless bodies there wasn’t anything to poke into.’

  ‘Bet you thought about it, though. Whatever goes on in those woods. Must have given you ideas.’

  ‘Sort of.’ Libby could feel herself blushing. ‘I did wonder if the murder was anything to do with Mannan Night.’

  ‘Go on, then, why?’

  Libby explained her earlier theories. ‘It doesn’t quite ring true, though,’ she said. ‘And anyway, the police will have looked into that aspect of it by now.’

  ‘You reckon this Lethbridge person killed the other one? The Green Man?’

  ‘Well, he did disappear immediately after the murder and no one’s seen him since,’ said Libby.

  ‘Figures.’ Lewis concentrated on filtering on to the M20. ‘Did you tell Ben when you were coming back?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him today,’ said Libby guiltily, aware that she had only called Ben once, yesterday, since she’d left. ‘But I said it would be today.’

  ‘How’s his dad?’

  ‘Much the same,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll give him a ring now.’

  Ben was delighted to hear from her, which made her feel even guiltier.

  ‘Would you like to come to the Manor for dinner?’ he asked. ‘Mum always makes too much.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ laughed Libby. ‘But are you sure she won’t mind? I mean, it’s a difficult time.’

  ‘It’s no different from how it was a week ago, to be honest. I might just as well move back out again, except that she seems to like my company.’

  ‘Is Greg confined to bed?’

  ‘That was my doing, I’m afraid,’ said Ben. ‘After I insisted she call the doctor the other day. He’d be perfectly all right downstairs in his own chair, I’m sure. It’s just the getting up and down stairs that’s the problem.’

  ‘At least you’ve got a downstairs loo if he does come down,’ said Libby. ‘If you’re sure, then, I’ll come up after I’ve had a freshen up.’

  ‘He was pleased, then?’ said Lewis, after she’d switched off.

  ‘Seemed to be. His dad’s no worse.’

  ‘So he could come back to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, turning to look out of the side window.

  ‘You don’t sound very pleased.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Libby. She turned back to Lewis. ‘Actually, it means I’ve got to make up my mind about Steeple Farm,’ she said, in a burst of honesty, ‘and I’m not sure about it.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Lewis slipped her a sideways grin. ‘Ad does, too. Doesn’t matter that we both like it and think you’d love it there, does it? It’s what you think matters.’

  ‘Yes, but it seems so churlish not to want to live there. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.’

  ‘Does churlish mean rotten? In that case, yeah, it does, but it’s how you feel. You have to have a feel for a house.’

  ‘I know. And when I first went there, when Peter’s mother was still living there, I hated it. And even though it’s different now, I can’t shake off that feeling.’ She bit her lip. ‘And Fran said she couldn’t see me living there, although she’s reneged a bit on that since.’

  ‘Stop using long words,’ said Lewis. ‘You mean she’s had second thoughts?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Libby. ‘She just said that she could be wrong, she often is.’ She sighed. ‘The trouble is, she’s nearly always right.’

  ‘So tell Ben you don’t want to move there. You can’t live there if you’re not going to be happy. Like me with Creekmarsh. I’d never be happy living there permanent, like. So I just pop in and out. Me mum wants to go and spend some time there, though. I’ll look for a manager and some staff soon, then we can start turning it into a proper venue.’

  Happy to change the subject, Libby said, ‘So are you still going to do weddings and conferences?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Lewis, ‘but I’d like to do a festival, too. You know, have a proper music festival.’

  ‘You’d have to have camping facilities for that,’ said Libby.

  ‘There’s plenty of room if you go up the other way from the river. Make an ideal site, it would.’

  ‘I don’t think the locals would like it.’

  ‘Oh, come on. It’d only be for a few days and hardly any people around there, anyway.’

  ‘Suppose so. Adam would
love it.’

  He grinned. ‘So would I.’

  By the time Libby had showered and changed, it was nearly eight o’clock before she set out for the Manor. Sidney, who had been fed alternately by Adam and Ben, chose to ignore her completely, and scratched the sides of the cane sofa viciously just to let her know who was boss.

  Ben met her at the bottom of the drive and enfolded her in a bear hug.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.

  ‘Missed you too,’ said Libby, feeling guiltier than ever.

  He tucked his arm through hers and led her slowly towards the house. ‘So tell me how it all went.’

  She gave him a brief outline of their adventures in Portherriot, and then, as they came level with the theatre, converted from the Manor’s oast house, she stopped and turned to face him.

  ‘Look Ben, I’ve got something to say,’ she said, trying to keep the shake out of her voice.

  He looked at her with a wry expression on his face. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ he said.

  ‘No, listen.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I just can’t fancy the idea of living at Steeple Farm. I’m sorry, and I know you’ve already put a lot into it, but it just doesn’t feel right to me.’

  He looked at her for a long moment. ‘You don’t want to live there, or you don’t want to live with me?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Oh, no! Only the house,’ she said, and, with a rush of relief, realised it was true. ‘Oh, Ben, I’ve missed you.’ She wound her arms round his neck and pressed her cheek to his. She felt him chuckle.

  ‘You’ve only been gone a couple of days,’ he said into her ear. ‘I’ll send you away more often if this is the reaction I get.’

  ‘It puts things into perspective,’ she said, pulling away and looking into his face. ‘I got very muddled about Steeple Farm.’

  ‘I know you did, and that’s why I said we would carry on as we are.’ He pulled her arm through his and they resumed their stroll towards the house. ‘What worried me was that you didn’t seem sure about me either.’

  ‘I thought you still wanted us to get married,’ said Libby. ‘I was terribly worried.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Ben. ‘We’ll just let Steeple Farm take care of itself. At the end of the renovations, either I or Pete will pay the bill, and if I don’t want it, Pete will sell it on the open market. Unless he decides to have it himself.’

  ‘And for now?’

  ‘For now, I’m hoping to be able to move back home.’ The blue eyes twinkled at her.

  ‘To me?’

  ‘Yes, to you. Hetty will be quite happy. After all, I’m not far away, am I? And she still says I was over-reacting to call the doctor last Sunday. We’ve got Dad downstairs for dinner this evening.’

  ‘Wow! You said you thought he could manage it earlier.’

  ‘Yes, so I went straight up and told him. He was delighted. Hetty grumbled a bit.’ They’d reached the house and Ben pushed open the door. ‘Come on, he’ll be pleased to see you.’

  Greg looked better than when she had last seen him, thought Libby, but the portable oxygen cylinder beside him looked frighteningly alien.

  ‘Don’t mind that,’ he said as she bent to kiss him. ‘Precautionary measure only. Tell us all about Cornwall.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘WHAT DOES ONE WEAR to a hen night?’ Libby, clad only in underwear, appeared in the sitting room. Ben grinned.

  ‘From what I’ve seen on the streets of Canterbury on a Saturday night, not much more than that,’ he said.

  ‘Not at Anderson Place,’ said Libby. ‘Sir Jonathan would have a heart attack.’

  ‘Is that nice girl Melanie still there?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Mel? No idea. I liked her.’

  ‘Is that where Jane and Terry are getting married?’

  Libby nodded.

  ‘Long way from Nethergate,’ said Ben.

  ‘She couldn’t find anywhere nearer that would hold enough people or have room to stay overnight,’ said Libby. ‘Oh, well, if you can’t help me with clothes I’ll go and continue rummaging.’

  ‘I’ll help you out of them, if you like,’ said Ben, coming towards her purposefully.

  When eventually Libby was successfully clad in black trousers and a floaty black top, Ben was lying back sultan-like on the bed.

  ‘You’ve certainly been re-invigorated by your trip to Cornwall,’ he said. ‘As I said, I think you’ll have to go away more often.’

  ‘I’ll start thinking you want to get rid of me,’ grinned Libby, patting his naked stomach. ‘Come on, make yourself respectable. Fran and Guy will be here soon.’

  ‘At least this is one outing with Fran that I don’t have to worry about,’ he said, heaving himself to his feet.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This time you’re not going off ferreting for information.’ Ben disappeared into the bathroom and Libby laughed.

  * * *

  Guy deposited Fran and Libby at the foot of the steps up to the front doors of Anderson Place.

  ‘Hasn’t changed,’ said Libby, looking round at the foyer. ‘Where are we meeting Jane?’

  ‘In the bar,’ said Fran, pointing. ‘Look, there she is.’

  Jane was at a table in a corner with three other young women; she introduced them to Libby and Fran, who felt like geriatrics.

  ‘Ben thought there’d be mini-skirts,’ Libby said in a whisper.

  ‘Dirty old man,’ said Fran. ‘Why?’

  ‘He said that’s what they wear on hen nights in Canterbury. Not much more than underwear, he said.’

  ‘That’s true. You’ve seen them yourself.’

  ‘Not in the flesh,’ said Libby, and giggled.

  Jane had bought champagne, and, by the time the final guests had arrived, happily nearer to Libby and Fran in age, everyone was relaxed and beginning to have a good time.

  ‘So, what do you do?’ one bright young thing asked Libby.

  ‘Do?’ Libby was confused.

  ‘For a living.’

  ‘Oh!’ Libby laughed. ‘I paint pictures.’

  ‘Cool. Really? Do you sell them?’

  ‘My husband does,’ said Fran with a smile. ‘In our gallery.’

  “Our” gallery, Libby noted.

  ‘And that’s what you do?’ the girl asked Fran with interest. ‘The gallery? Wow. So much more interesting than my job.’

  ‘Do you work with Jane at the paper?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I used to, but I was made redundant.’ The girl shrugged. ‘I work for Frensham Holdings now.’

  Libby’s champagne went up her nose.

  ‘What do you do?’ asked Fran smoothly, ignoring her.

  ‘I work for one of the directors. He’s all right, it’s just so boring.’

  ‘What does Frensham Holdings do?’ asked Libby, recovered.

  ‘Owns lots of smaller companies.’ The girl held out her hand to Fran. ‘Sorry, I don’t think I got your names when I came in. I’m Trisha.’

  Fran and Libby introduced themselves.

  ‘What sort of companies does Frensham Holdings own, then?’ said Libby.

  Trisha looked surprised. ‘Well, they’re more divisions, I suppose. There’s Frensham Marketing, Frensham Supplies and Frensham Media. That’s how I got in, because I’d been working for the paper. Mr Phillips is the director in charge of the media division.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Libby, nodding.

  Jane chose that moment to call her party to order and marshal them into the restaurant, where Libby was unsurprised, but pleased, to be greeted by Melanie, the events manager, who had organised Peter and Harry’s civil partnership, and was now, obviously, organising Jane’s wedding.

  ‘Did you recommend us?’ she asked Libby quietly.

  ‘I think I mentioned you,’ said Libby with a grin.

  ‘Well, thanks. Word of mouth is the best recommendation.’

  ‘How’s Sir Jonathan?’ Fran leant across Libby.

  ‘Very well. Still p
ottering about upstairs. You can pop up and see him if you like.’

  ‘Maybe after dinner,’ said Libby. ‘I think we’re at Jane’s beck and call just now.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re here, anyway,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Of course, you’d know Melanie, wouldn’t you?’ said Jane. ‘It was that other murder, wasn’t it?’

  A sudden silence fell around the table.

  ‘Murder?’ squeaked Trisha. ‘Oooh!’ She leant forward. ‘Someone from our firm got murdered, you know.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby weakly, while various other questions erupted from other guests.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jane, and clapped her hands. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. And there wasn’t a murder here, so don’t worry about it.’

  Not here exactly, thought Libby, and sighed. The guests subsided, trying not to look too obviously at Libby and Fran. Trisha, however, was not to be subdued.

  ‘Did you know about our murder?’ she asked, still leaning forward. ‘It was Mr Frensham himself.’

  ‘Yes, I heard,’ said Libby.

  ‘Awful, it was,’ said Trisha with a certain ghoulish relish. ‘He was in some silly costume with the Morris dancers.’

  ‘I know,’ said Libby.

  ‘Miss Martin was gutted.’ Trisha said with satisfaction and sat back in her seat.

  ‘Miss Martin?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Elizabeth Martin. She’s the exec director of Frensham Holdings. My Mr Phillips fancies her rotten.’

  ‘Office politics and romances, eh?’ said Libby with a laugh, trying to hold these new names in her head for later.

  Jane leant across and tapped Trisha’s arm. ‘Not murder on my hen night, Trish,’ she said.

  Trisha coloured. ‘Sorry,’ she said, including them all in a shamefaced smile. ‘I’ll shut up.’

  ‘What do you think of that?’ said Libby sotto voce, as a waitress placed a bowl of soup in front of her.

  ‘Interesting, but I thought we weren’t investigating?’ said Fran, with a sly grin.

  ‘Again!’ said Libby, with an answering grin.