Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  Adam, Ben and Libby stared at him.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Libby.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘LISTEN,’ SAID LIBBY ON the phone to Fran. ‘It’s John Leth-bridge we should be looking at.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘So?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been looking at Bill Frensham.’

  ‘You have. Ever since we came back yesterday I’ve been thinking about the motive for Lethbridge’s murder, if what Ian said was right.’

  ‘Oh,’ Libby said, deflated. ‘Harry pointed it out last night. I hadn’t thought of it.’

  ‘Wilhelmina would be a good place to start,’ said Fran. ‘How do we get to her?’

  ‘She has kept cropping up, hasn’t she? I could ask Gemma.’

  ‘What about that Diggory person?’

  ‘He cropped up again last night, too,’ said Libby, and repeated the conversation.

  ‘You could always get on to him about the Goddess business,’ suggested Fran.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Libby.

  But the next person she spoke to on the phone came as a total surprise.

  ‘Is that Mrs Wilde?’ The female voice was soft and hesitant, timorous almost, thought Libby.

  ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘I’m Ben’s partner, Libby Sarjeant. Can I help you?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said the voice. ‘Did you go and see Mr Phillips at Frensham Barn yesterday?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself.’ The voice gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m Monica Frensham.’

  Libby’s eyebrows flew up. ‘Mrs Frensham?’ she repeated.

  ‘Er – yes.’ Monica Frensham cleared her throat. ‘I hope you don’t mind my phoning you, only I understand you’ve been asking some questions.’

  Libby’s stomach rolled in acute embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry –’ she began.

  ‘No, no, please,’ interrupted Monica. ‘I don’t mind at all. In fact, I was wondering – could we meet?’

  Meet? Libby’s brain started flying in all directions. ‘Of course, if you feel –’

  ‘Yes, please. And your friend? Mrs – Wolfe, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby. ‘I mean, yes.’ She stopped for a moment. ‘May I ask how you know – um – about us?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Barry Phillips called me yesterday. And Gemma Baverstock has called once or twice to see how I am – was.’

  ‘I see,’ said Libby slowly. ‘Well, of course we’d love to see you, if you think we can help in any way. Where and when do you suggest?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. Shall I come to you? Or would you like to come to me? Or somewhere else?’ Monica’s voice sounded stronger now.

  ‘Why don’t Fran and I come to you?’ suggested Libby, deciding it would be a good plan to have a look at Bill Frensham’s home ground.

  ‘Certainly. Whenever you want.’

  ‘I’ll get in touch with Fran – Mrs Wolfe – and call you back. And thank you for calling.’

  ‘Well!’ said Libby to Sidney as she dialled 1471 to obtain the Frensham number. ‘That takes the biscuit. Would you believe it?’

  She punched the button for Fran’s number and prowled round the sitting room waiting for it to be answered.

  ‘Hello,’ said Fran’s surprised voice. ‘Did you forget something?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Libby, and explained.

  ‘Well I’ll be –’ said Fran.

  ‘So was I,’ said Libby. ‘So we want to go, don’t we?’

  ‘I’ll say we do,’ said Fran. ‘Any time she says.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Whenever she wants,’ said Fran.

  ‘This afternoon?’ suggested Monica when Libby called back.

  ‘Yes, if you’re sure that would be convenient,’ said Libby. ‘About three?’

  The Frensham house turned out to be in a hamlet deep into hop-farming country. Fran picked Libby up on the way, and after negotiating some very narrow lanes between very high hedges, they came out on a ridge looking down into a shallow valley, where a cluster of houses huddled round a church. Hop gardens lay to one side, while rolling green fields lay to the other, a wood topping the rise on the other side of the valley.

  ‘I wonder if this valley continues to Steeple Mount,’ said Libby, as Fran set the car to drive slowly down the steep lane to the hamlet.

  ‘It’s called Steeple Cross,’ said Fran, ‘so it’s sure to be connected. I bet we could have got here easier than coming via Steeple Martin.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Libby. ‘Here, look. That’s the house.’

  The road flattened out just as two redbrick gateposts topped with white pineapples appeared on their right. A curving gravelled drive led to a pristine neo-Georgian house, flanked on all sides by manicured lawns, regimental cypresses and depressed shrubs. Libby and Fran looked at each other.

  ‘I’m glad we didn’t bring Romeo,’ muttered Libby, as they got out of Fran’s little Roller Skate. ‘He’s not half smart enough for this place.’

  Monica Frensham opened the panelled front door before they could get near it.

  ‘Hello,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’m so glad you could come.’ She stood back to allow them entry, then with a quick, bird-like nod, showed them into a huge room on their left.

  Windows looked out over the drive, and at the other end, french doors led into what appeared to be an enormous conservatory. A faux fireplace sat against the side wall, with a spiky and formal arrangement of twigs and silk flowers on its hearth and a group of photographs on the mantel. Monica gestured to a corner sofa arrangement in pale green and took a large leather rocking chair herself, her thin body and mouse-brown hair overwhelmed by its opulence.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ she said again. ‘I can’t tell you how frustrated I’ve been.’

  Libby swallowed and blinked.

  ‘Oh – oh, I’m sorry.’ Monica stood up. ‘Tea? Would you like tea? I should have asked as soon as you got here. And cake. I won’t be a moment.’ And she hurried out the way they had come in.

  ‘Frustrated, eh?’ murmured Libby.

  Fran nodded. ‘By Frensham Holdings. But let her tell it.’

  Libby nodded and went to the mantelpiece to look at the photographs. There were two family groups, one from several years ago when the two children were small and one comparatively recent. She was surprised at Bill Frensham’s appearance, which she barely remembered. Tall and good-looking, with a sharp, pointed face which was reflected in the two children’s features, he bent solicitously towards his wife, who was turned slightly away from him, her own sharp features softened as she looked at her children.

  Monica must have had everything prepared, for she returned in a very short time pushing a tea trolley – a tea trolley! thought Libby – with cups, teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two-tier cake stand. She gave a nervous little laugh.

  ‘I never get to have proper tea any more,’ she said. ‘You must excuse me for indulging myself.’ She sat down and sighed. ‘This is such a treat.’

  When they were all served with tea and Libby had taken two small chocolate cakes, Monica put her cup on a side table and looked down at her hands.

  ‘I know this must have seemed an odd request,’ she began, ‘but when I heard you’d been asking questions, I though you might help me. I’ve been wanting to ask questions too, you see, and no one will answer them.’

  ‘I’m not sure I quite understand how you knew we were asking questions,’ said Fran.

  ‘I told Mrs Wilde – I mean Sarjeant – Barry Phillips told me.’

  ‘But I didn’t actually ask him questions,’ said Libby, feeling uncomfortable. ‘I went there to hire the barn for my – for Ben. It was Eliz – Mrs Martin – who put the cat among the pigeons.’

  Monica’s eyes narrowed and her expression changed. She looks like an angry mouse, thought Libby. ‘Elizabeth Martin. Yes.’ She was silent for a moment and Fran and L
ibby exchanged stealthy glances. Eventually, she took a deep breath and looked up.

  ‘Barry said he’d told you Martin and my husband had an affair?’

  Omigod, thought Libby. ‘Yes,’ she said aloud.

  ‘And that it was over but she wouldn’t let go?’

  Libby nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s only half the problem.’ Monica picked up her cup and took a sip. ‘She’s actively preventing me from looking into the firm’s business. I’m the major shareholder now, and although when he was alive Bill never wanted me to get involved in the business, unless I sell out to Martin and Phillips, or float my shares, I need to know what’s going on.’ She smiled. ‘I’m shrewder than I look, and without Bill’s knowledge I kept up with a lot of the firm’s dealings. Not so much the supplies side – he’d have been down on me like a ton of bricks, but I could always poke around media and marketing.’ She put her head on one side. ‘I could never understand why those two divisions were separate.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Libby. ‘I said that yesterday.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Monica, ignoring the interruption, ‘what I wanted to know was have you found anything out, and why you were asking questions in the first place.’

  Another silence fell. At last, Fran, with a quick glance at Libby, spoke. She explained about Gemma Baverstock’s concerns, Trisha’s vague worries and finally Ian Connell’s request.

  Monica kept her eyes fixed on Fran’s face, and when she’d finished speaking, nodded slowly.

  ‘So it’s official,’ she said.

  ‘Official?’ said Libby.

  ‘Your enquiry.’

  ‘Well – not exactly.’

  ‘But the police know you’re asking questions.’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby raised her chin a little. ‘Mind you, we don’t tell them everything.’

  Fran shifted on her end of the sofa and Libby ignored her.

  ‘So you can tell me what you’ve found out?’ said Monica, leaning forward a little.

  ‘Some of it’s still confidential,’ said Fran quickly, before Libby could speak. ‘Inspector Connell trusts us to keep a lot of the information to ourselves.’

  ‘Even stuff you’ve found out?’ Monica sounded incredulous.

  ‘It might be prejudicial.’

  ‘What about –’ she paused and swallowed ‘John Lethbridge?’

  Libby and Fran exchanged another quick glance.

  ‘You know they found his body?’ said Libby.

  Monica nodded. ‘I wouldn’t have. Barry told me.’

  ‘He was under the impression that Lethbridge had killed your husband.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded again. ‘So was everybody.’ She shook her head, looking down into her lap. ‘So silly.’

  ‘Silly?’

  ‘John wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ Monica looked up and away towards the front windows. ‘He was so gentle.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby looked helplessly at Fran, who gave a slight shrug. ‘So you never agreed with the official verdict?’

  Monica looked back. ‘The police never said they suspected John of Bill’s murder. After the first few times they left me alone.’ She bit her lip. ‘I wasn’t very well, you see.’

  ‘The first few times?’ said Fran.

  ‘When they came to question me. Would you like more tea?’ She stood up and Libby and Fran handed over their cups with murmured assent.

  ‘Would you like to know what happened?’ asked Monica, as she handed their refilled cups back.

  ‘What happened?’ said Libby cautiously.

  ‘When they came to tell me I was just about to leave.’ She turned towards the french windows and began pacing.

  ‘She wants to talk,’ mouthed Fran. ‘Let her.’

  ‘Leave?’ prompted Libby.

  ‘For the parade. I always went to the finish, where they danced and had the maypole. And I was just leaving.’ Her voice quavered on the last word. Libby and Fran kept quiet.

  ‘And they wanted to know when I’d last seen Bill – which was stupid, because I’d seen him when he left two hours before. And after that they came back a couple of times to ask about Bill and Cranston Morris, and John, and their relationship.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I told them, John couldn’t have had anything to do with Bill’s death. They were friends. We were friends.’

  ‘Did you get on with John’s wife?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Willy?’ Monica gave a tremulous laugh. ‘I was scared of her. She’s terribly glamorous and a bit – er, well. Have you met her?’

  ‘No,’ said Fran, ‘but we were hoping to speak to her. Could you introduce us?’

  ‘Oh, no, she wouldn’t like that,’ said Monica firmly. ‘She never liked me.’

  ‘What about the night before Bill’s death?’ said Libby after a pause. ‘Do you know anything about what happened then?’

  ‘That was when they say John was killed, was it?’

  ‘Yes. Beltane night,’ said Fran.

  Monica shook her head. ‘Why would I know anything about that?’ She made a face. ‘Silly business. Jumping over fires. Ridiculous.’

  ‘You didn’t go, then?’ said Libby.

  ‘No, I didn’t! I never did. I was never interested in any of the Morris stuff. Especially that Goddess business.’

  ‘Goddess?’ said Libby and Fran together.

  Monica looked confused for a moment, and Libby wondered if she hadn’t meant to mention the Goddess.

  ‘Oh, you know, the Oak King and all the extra stuff.’ She turned back to the french windows. ‘All the brother and sister gods.’

  ‘Is that what it is?’ said Libby surprised. ‘I thought the Goddess was the mother figure.’

  Monica turned back towards them and shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s all fairly disgusting, isn’t it?’

  ‘And Bill was into all that, was he?’ said Libby. Fran frowned at her.

  ‘Yes. He said it was all part of our cultural heritage.’ She came and sat down again in the leather chair. ‘Wilhelmina was always the Goddess.’

  ‘But Gemma was the Goddess this year, and she doesn’t seem to want to be part of – of – well, all of that.’

  ‘No. Sensible of her.’ Monica sat up straight and lifted her chin. ‘Wilhelmina had left though. After she and John split up.’

  No one seemed to know what to say after that, and eventually, Libby cleared her throat and edged to the front of the sofa.

  ‘Well, if we’ve answered your questions, Mrs Frensham, I think we ought to go now,’ she said.

  ‘But you haven’t answered my questions.’ Monica’s voice was tremulous again. ‘You haven’t really told me anything.’

  ‘I told you everything that’s happened since Gemma Baverstock got in touch with Libby,’ said Fran gently. ‘There isn’t any more.’

  Monica’s face twisted. ‘But what about John’s body? You must know more about that?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Fran.

  ‘Except –’ began Libby.

  ‘Except what?’ Monica turned to her eagerly.

  Libby felt her cheeks growing hot and turned to Fran for help.

  ‘Where it was found,’ said Fran. ‘In the woods near Steeple Mount.’

  ‘Woods?’

  ‘Where they walked to the Mount.’

  ‘Oh.’ Monica frowned. ‘So that’s when he was killed? When they were walking to the Beltane fire?’

  Fran sent Libby a warning look. ‘They think so,’ she said. ‘But you said you knew it was Beltane night just now.’

  ‘But I don’t see …’ Monica stopped. ‘How did no one notice?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘The police only give us a small amount of information. We’re not part of the inner circle.’

  Monica gave a short laugh. ‘Sounds like Cranston Morris,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’ said Libby innocently.

  ‘You already know about the Goddess business, and the Oak and Holly kings. All that incestuous stuff.’ She looked as thou
gh there was something rotten under her nose.

  ‘You’re saying not everyone was part of that? That it was a separate – um – organisation?’

  Monica surveyed her shrewdly. ‘I’m sure you know that already.’

  Libby’s cheeks began to burn again.

  ‘I think we ought to be going, Libby,’ said Fran, standing up hastily. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Frensham.’

  Monica stood up, a slight figure in pale blue. ‘You’ve spoken to Richard Diggory, haven’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Libby was on her feet, too. ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ Monica’s voice was hard. ‘He knows all about the Goddess. You know that.’

  ‘Er – yes.’ Libby cleared her throat.

  Monica looked at her. ‘Yes. He told me.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him as well as Barry Phillips?’ said Fran.

  ‘I’ve spoken to everybody,’ said Monica, moving to the door. ‘And no one will tell me anything.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ‘WELL!’ SAID LIBBY, as she climbed into the car beside Fran.

  ‘That was a most uncomfortable session.’

  ‘But telling,’ said Fran, putting the car into reverse. ‘Especially who she’d talked to.’

  ‘We should have taken Sir Jonathan with us,’ said Libby. ‘He said he liked her, and we did promise him.’

  ‘She would have gone all sugary if he’d been there,’ said Fran. ‘At least we saw her more or less normal.’

  ‘That was normal?’ said Libby, leaning back out of the way while Fran negotiated the turn into the road. ‘She started out by putting on an act, didn’t she?’

  ‘Seemed like it,’ said Fran. ‘And she certainly isn’t overcome with grief about her husband.’

  ‘I couldn’t quite work out what she was concerned about,’ said Libby. ‘John Lethbridge mainly, I thought.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Even though she made sure we realised that, I think it’s safe to say they were having an affair. Or had had an affair.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby turned to Fran in surprise. ‘Her?’

  ‘Not a likely candidate for an affair, you think?’ said Fran with a grin.

  ‘Well, no. Too thin, and not in the least glamorous.’