Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Well, I do now,’ said Fran. ‘And I’m going to tell Ian.’

  ‘I think you should,’ said Libby, ‘and right now, or he’ll think you’ve been holding out on him.’

  Fran sighed, nodded and swallowed the last of her tea. ‘Can I use your landline?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Libby waved a hand. ‘Give him my love.’ Fran scowled.

  As it happened, Ian Connell wasn’t at his desk and whoever was on the other end of the phone wasn’t keen on giving him any messages unless he, the desk sergeant, was put in full possession of the details. Fran declined, and finally got a grudging agreement that her name would be mentioned if Inspector Connell happened to be passing.

  ‘Try his mobile,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve both still got the number.’

  ‘But only for an emergency,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t like to.’

  ‘This is an emergency,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Fran sighed. ‘No. If he sees your number come up he’ll get annoyed and probably won’t answer.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ said Libby.

  However, Ian’s mobile went straight to voicemail, and, unwilling to say too much, Fran asked him to ring her.

  ‘He will,’ said Libby, ‘because he’ll guess the only reason you’d call would be with information, concrete or not.’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Fran, turning her attention to the computer again. ‘Let’s look up Goat people now.’

  But the only page on Goat’s Head Morris contained just a list of where they were performing and a contact telephone number.

  ‘Secretive, these Cornish, aren’t they’ said Libby. ‘I did wonder if they really are Morris men, or if they themselves are another sort of cult.’

  ‘Oh, let’s not get into that,’ said Fran. ‘Whoever killed Frensham was nothing to do with them. He might have linked up with them to perform weird and wonderful rites in Portherriot, but I think that’s where their involvement ends.’

  ‘I think I ought to go and see Gemma again,’ said Libby ‘despite what I said. I want to know who threatened her and when.’

  ‘I doubt if it’s got anything to do with the case, I’ve just said. Leave it.’

  ‘I want to know why she’s still worried,’ persisted Libby. ‘If she is.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave it until we hear back from Ian,’ said Fran.

  ‘What do you expect him to do?’

  Fran’s brow wrinkled. ‘I’m not sure. Search the area where they held their Beltane night celebrations?’

  ‘If it was near to the Mount, wouldn’t they have searched already? Once they realised he’d disappeared?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Fran. ‘I wish I knew more about police investigations.’

  Libby went to make more tea while Fran amused herself searching for unlikely combinations of cults on the computer until her phone rang.

  ‘Ian, hello,’ she said.

  Libby brought the two mugs back in and sat down at the table, watching her friend’s face.

  ‘No,’ said Fran, ‘it was just that I had a – well, I thought John Lethbridge might have been killed the night before the murder.’

  Libby saw her face change.

  ‘What?’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘How? What happened?’

  She listened for a long time, while Libby fidgeted on her chair and tried to contain her impatience. Eventually, she said goodbye and switched off the phone.

  ‘Well?’ said Libby.

  ‘They’ve found John Lethbridge’s body,’ said Fran.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Libby.

  ‘In the woods near the Mount. There’s a path that leads through them on the edge of a sort of escarpment. Very thick woods. He was found at the bottom of this sort of cliff.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Ian wouldn’t say. He just wanted to know why I’d thought it had happened on Beltane night. He wants to talk to me.’

  ‘But you don’t know anything else.’

  ‘I know. I think he wants to try and drum something else up, like he has before.’

  ‘Guy won’t like that.’

  ‘I can make sure he’s there with me.’

  ‘What about me?’ said Libby indignantly. ‘Why can’t I be there, too?’

  ‘After Ian’s warning to you? I don’t think he’d like that.’

  ‘Well, as long as you tell me everything afterwards.’ Libby was grumpy.

  ‘When don’t I?’ said Fran. She stood up. ‘I’d better get home. I think he wants to speak to me tonight.’

  ‘I’ve just made more tea,’ protested Libby.

  Fran sat down again. ‘Sorry. But I’d better be quick.’

  ‘So, now we know Lethbridge was murdered,’ said Libby. ‘Does it change things? We’ve suspected it all along.’

  ‘So have the police I think,’ said Fran, sipping tea.

  ‘How did they find the body? Without hearing from you first?’

  ‘Just a plain old search, I think. They’d tried to find him alive, you know, credit card transactions, sightings, all ports and airports covered, but no trace, so they had to search for a body. Someone had seen him earlier that day – the day before May Day – and he was all right but a bit jumpy.’

  ‘Did Ian tell you that?’ Libby said in surprise.

  ‘Yes.’ Fran looked equally surprised. ‘Oh, I suppose I’m going to be cast as an expert witness again. He shouldn’t really tell me anything.’

  ‘No.’ Libby looked thoughtful. ‘I tell you what, that body had been there for nearly two months. I bet it was in a state.’

  ‘Oh, yuck, Lib. Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘Good job you didn’t see that in your mind’s eye, wasn’t it?’ Libby grinned wickedly. ‘Put you off your cornflakes, that would.’

  Fran put down her mug. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘that’s it. I’m going. I’ll let you know what Ian says.’

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ said Libby as she stood on the doorstep. ‘Is this common knowledge yet? Have they released it to the press?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can I tell Ben?’

  ‘He’s told me, so it can’t be classified. I expect they’ll release it on the news this evening.’ Fran got into her car. ‘Talk to you later.’

  Libby went back inside, brow furrowed in concentration. Now the situation was a lot clearer and seemed to remove several suspects. She sat down at the table and drank the remainder of her cooling tea. She remembered her feelings of this morning, when she had almost decided to give up amateur detection.

  ‘What,’ she said out loud to Sidney, who had appeared and was winding himself round her legs, ‘do I actually have to do with this case? Only Gemma wanting me talk to her silly Morris side. Because I’ve been foolish enough to get myself involved in murders before. But why did she want me to talk to them? She’s never really explained that.’ She stood up. ‘I’m just a sucker for a mystery, I suppose, and because of that, other people get me involved.’ She took the mugs to the kitchen and stood looking through the conservatory to the garden.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she sighed, as Sidney jumped up to the work surface and began nosing at the bread bin. ‘Satiable curiosity, like the elephant’s child. An intellectual exercise.’ She frowned as she decanted cat food onto Sidney’s chipped Victorian saucer. ‘Except that it’s real people, not characters in a television drama.’

  She put the saucer on the floor and reflected on the real people. The proposed meeting with Martin and Phillips now didn’t seem relevant, if, as seemed certain, Lethbridge’s and Frensham’s murders were linked. But now there was a new suspect. The Goddess herself. Wilhelmina Lethbridge.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, Ben had begun preparations for his “leaving” party. His gift to Libby was to send her as a special envoy to Frensham Barn.

  ‘What do I have to do?’ she asked, when he told her that evening.

  ‘See which rooms are available, facilities like cloakrooms, and what caterin
g arrangements they have.’

  ‘Couldn’t Harry do the catering?’

  ‘Not everyone’s a vegetarian, Lib. Unless Harry soils his fingers with a bit of meat I think that’s out of the question.’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby sighed. ‘Pity. And who do I meet?’

  ‘Barry Phillips. He’s in charge of marketing, which is where Frensham Barn fits into the organisation.’ Ben frowned. ‘I’ve always quite liked Barry. I don’t like to think of him mixed up in any of Bill Frensham’s dirty work.’

  ‘Are you sure there was dirty work?’

  ‘Pretty sure. Apart from trying to chisel money out of us, dodgy deals with the suppliers and a lot of cash deals which I’ll guarantee didn’t go through the books.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound too awful,’ said Libby.

  ‘I suppose not, but definitely illegal.’ He smiled. ‘And immoral.’

  ‘But old Sir Jonathan said Bill Frensham was one of the most upright and straight businessmen he’d ever met. And they used to hold functions at Anderson Place. Why do that when they had the barn?’

  ‘More prestigious,’ said Ben, ‘and let’s face it, Frensham wouldn’t let Sir Jonathan get wind of anything underhand, would he?’

  ‘Another thing,’ said Libby, chewing her lip, ‘won’t they think it’s odd you booking the place when you’d had a run-in with them?’

  ‘The girl I spoke to didn’t comment,’ said Ben.

  ‘I wonder if that was Trisha.’

  ‘Barry Phillips PA, she said she was.’

  ‘That’s Trisha,’ said Libby. ‘I hope she isn’t there when I go. She’d never be able to pretend she’d never met me.’

  ‘Why should she?’

  ‘Well, she spilt a certain amount of beans, didn’t she?’

  ‘Nothing much, from what you’ve told me. Now, stop worrying. The appointment’s set for tomorrow morning at eleven, so let’s get an early night so you can catch up on your beauty sleep.’ He leered at her.

  ‘Satyr,’ she said, making for the stairs.

  Libby was nervous as she drove across country towards Frensham Barn. She didn’t know quite what Ben expected her to get from this meeting, and as John Lethbridge’s body had now been found, she couldn’t see any link between Frensham Holdings and Bill Frensham’s murder. She wondered privately if Ben was doing this in some way to get back at the company, but in that case, why hire them?

  ‘Or,’ she said to herself, as she turned into a tarmac drive signposted “Frensham Barn”, ‘perhaps he doesn’t actually intend to hold the party after all. Perhaps he’ll leave them in the lurch.’ She scowled at the building in front of her. Surely Ben wouldn’t be that devious.

  The barn looked like every other converted barn Libby had ever seen. Most of its front was glass, and as far as she could see there was nothing special about it. She wondered if that was one of Ben’s problems. Perhaps they had watered down his design and then tried not to pay for it?

  There were three cars parked in marked parking bays to one side of the forecourt. Libby parked next to a large silver Mercedes and got out. There was silence except for distant summery country sounds. She walked slowly towards the open door, taking a deep breath and summoning her courage.

  ‘Mrs Sarjeant?’ A shortish, well-built man appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby.

  He held out a well-manicured hand. ‘I’m Barry Phillips, very nice to meet you.’

  ‘Er – yes,’ said Libby shaking the hand.

  ‘So Ben Wilde has forgiven us, has he?’ Barry Phillips made this sound jocular, but there was a sharp look in his small blue eyes.

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ said Libby.

  ‘You know he designed this building?’

  ‘Hurrum – yes,’ said Libby.

  ‘I believe there was some trouble over the bill. We had to modify the design.’ Barry Phillips was watching her carefully.

  Just as I thought, Libby told herself. Out loud, she said, ‘I rather gathered that when I saw the building.’

  ‘Ah.’ Phillips’s round face broke into a grin. ‘Well, it was nothing to do with me,’ he said, ‘even though I am a director and the barn comes under my control. I preferred Ben’s original design. Still,’ he took her elbow and led her through the lobby and into a large conference room, ‘I’m glad that he’s decided we’re on speaking terms again. I liked Ben.’

  And I like you, thought Libby, smiling back at him. I’m glad you’re not a suspect.

  ‘I think Ben’s argument was with Bill Frensham personally, rather than with Frensham Holdings,’ she said artlessly, ‘and of course, now he’s dead …’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Phillips looked solemn, but Libby thought she detected a certain relief in his expression. You didn’t like Frensham either, she thought.

  ‘Terrible business, that,’ he said. ‘They haven’t caught the man who did it yet?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ said Libby, slightly surprised. ‘No leads at all.’

  ‘But the man who disappeared … they haven’t found him yet.’ He shook his head. ‘Shocking. It’s been two months now.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby, ‘they’ve found him.’

  ‘They have?’ Phillips turned, his eyes widening in shock. ‘My God! Why has no one told us? Have they told Monica?’

  ‘Monica?’ Libby frowned.

  ‘Monica – Bill’s wife. They must have told her. How do you know?’

  Sidestepping this question, Libby said with a certain amount of internal glee, ‘But why should they tell her?’

  ‘What?’ Phillips looked at her as though she was mad. ‘Surely they tell the murder victim’s wife when the murderer’s caught?’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Libby feigned sudden understanding. ‘Oh, no, they haven’t caught the murderer. They just found John Lethbridge’s body. He was the man who disappeared. And it turns out he’d been dead longer than Mr Frensham.’

  Luckily, Barry Phillips didn’t ask her again how she knew, but simply looked as though his world had fallen apart. That’s interesting, thought Libby. That’s made him think the murderer must be someone else. And he’s worried about who.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Libby brightly, ‘I’m not here to talk about Mr Frensham. I mustn’t waste your time. You know the reason for Ben holding this reception?’

  Barry Phillips pulled himself together with an effort. ‘Ah, yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘According to my secretary,’ Trisha wouldn’t like that, thought Libby, ‘he’s holding a sort of retirement party. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t hold one when he retired from active service, as it were, so he thought he ought to make it official.’

  ‘He hasn’t actually left the company, has he? Sold his interest?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Libby shook her head. ‘But he no longer practises. He manages his father’s estate.’

  ‘Oh?’ Libby could see Phillips’s ears prick up. ‘Where’s that?’

  Time to depress pretension. ‘Steeple Martin,’ she said. ‘So, can you tell me what facilities you have and what catering arrangements you usually make? Parking and so on?’

  Barry Phillips switched on his professional manner and led her through the barn’s multiple, if bland, facilities. Libby decided she would much prefer Anderson Place, but smiled and nodded throughout.

  ‘Now, would you like a cup of coffee?’ he asked at the end of the tour. ‘Real stuff in the office.’ He smiled at her and she reminded herself that she liked him.

  ‘Thank you, that would be nice,’ she said and followed him into a spacious office to the left of the main lobby.

  ‘Who lives in here normally?’ she asked as she seated herself by the desk.

  ‘Whoever’s here from head office. It’s not in constant use, so there’s no reason to have someone here all the time.’

  ‘Oh. Whose are the cars outside then? There were three there when I parked.’

  ‘Gardeners.’ Phillips placed a cafetière between them on th
e desk. ‘They come in twice a week or more if we have a function. They have their own building hidden away in the grounds.’ He frowned suddenly.

  ‘Where they keep their tools I suppose?’ said Libby. ‘That would have to be alarmed as well as this place, wouldn’t it? Expensive equipment, I would have thought.’

  ‘Yes.’ Phillips lifted his gaze from the cafetière. ‘Funny, you know, I wondered if it was something to do with that when Bill was murdered.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby’s heart thumped. ‘Why?’

  ‘We had a break-in down there a while ago. Bill looked into it, but wouldn’t call the police.’ He sighed. ‘I couldn’t understand why.’

  ‘Was much taken?’

  ‘No, that was the point. Bill made a report for the estates department, and then – well, it was brushed under the carpet. Or that’s what it seemed like to me.’ He was frowning again.

  ‘Should you be telling me this?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ He looked up and smiled again. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t. I expect it was because you told me about that other bloke being found that Bill’s murder was in my mind.’

  Libby fought a battle with her sensible side and won. ‘Actually, I knew Bill myself, slightly,’ she said, crossing her fingers. ‘I’m still friendly with some of the members of Cranston Morris.’

  ‘Really.’ He looked wary. ‘Strange bunch, I always thought.’

  ‘Oh, I agree. In fact I was down in Cornwall last week filming them, and some of the things they get up to are really weird.’

  ‘Filming?’

  ‘Oh, a friend of mine was doing a small feature about them on a television programme.’

  Barry Phillips looked as though he’d like to have asked, but didn’t.

  ‘Lewis Osbourne-Walker,’ said Libby, putting him out of his misery. ‘He does a programme –’

  ‘Yes, I know what he does. And he owns Creekmarsh.’ He put his head on one side. ‘And I know who you are, now, too.’

  Libby’s heart sank.

  ‘You’re the one who found that body –’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Libby interrupted. ‘Why does everyone think I did?’

  ‘But aren’t you the one who’s been mixed up with all those murders? Is that why you’re interested in Bill?’