Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  Libby, bright red, with tears ruining her eye make-up, accepted a tissue from Fran and a hug from Ben and tried to concentrate on the short ceremony.

  As wedding organiser Melanie had once told Harry and Libby, the happy couple were able to go straight out on to the balcony for photographs, followed by their guests, who drifted down the steps after the obligatory group pictures and across to the marquee where the reception was to be held.

  ‘Bit bigger than ours,’ said Fran.

  ‘I liked yours better,’ said Libby, ‘but just look over there!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That waitress with the tray – the blonde one.’

  Fran looked at her. ‘There are at least three blonde ones.’

  ‘The Marilyn Monroe look-alike,’ whispered Libby. ‘With the very short skirt.’

  ‘Right.’ Fran nodded. ‘What about her?’

  ‘I can’t believe the coincidence,’ said Libby, ‘but that’s Wilhelmina Lethbridge!’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘HOW EMBARRASSING,’ SAID FRAN, turning away.

  ‘Embarrassing? Why?’

  ‘Well, you practically accused her of murder last week. Don’t you think it’s embarrassing?’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby stared across at Wilhelmina, who was by now smiling brightly at a succession of male guests who had lined up to relieve her of glasses. ‘I think she’s beyond embarrassing.’

  ‘She might be, but you’re not.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby again. ‘Well, I’ll just have to try and avoid her. I wonder why she’s here?’

  ‘Working, I should imagine,’ said Fran dryly. ‘The same as Diggory who’s standing behind the buffet table.’

  Libby caught her breath and choked. ‘Oh, bugger,’ she said.

  Ben appeared at her side and gave her a considering look. ‘Whatever you’re plotting, my love, could I remind you that we’re at a wedding, and our first duty is to the happy couple, who have just arrived to do the receiving line?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Libby smiled brightly and straightened her jacket. ‘Come on, then, Fran.’

  ‘Why is Diggory here?’ she whispered, as they approached the uneven receiving line, consisting of Jane, Terry, Mrs Maurice, hanging back and trying to remain inconspicuous, and Terry’s mother, a small, jolly person wearing a bright pink and blue floating creation that made her look like a plump fairy godmother.

  After being presented to both mothers as “the person who brought us together”, and being acknowledged by Mrs Maurice with a baleful eye and a brief ‘We’ve met’, Libby escaped towards a table laden with full champagne glasses.

  ‘Have one of these,’ said a voice in her ear and she nearly jumped a foot in the air.

  ‘Willy!’ she gasped. ‘I mean, Mrs Lethbridge.’

  ‘Willy will do.’ Wilhelmina looked round the marquee and turned her back on the guests, handing Libby a glass as she did so. ‘I’m glad I’ve run into you.’

  ‘You are?’ Libby took a fortifying swig of the champagne and coughed.

  ‘You knew about John when you saw us last week, didn’t you?’

  Libby risked a quick look at Wilhelmina’s face, which was bent over her tray of glasses. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.’

  Wilhelmina shook her head. ‘That’s OK. I understand how suspicious you were.’

  ‘You do?’ Libby’s eyebrows reached her hairline. ‘I thought I was probably a bit rude. And I certainly jumped to a lot of conclusions.’

  ‘Yes, you did. But they were mostly right.’ Wilhelmina looked up, and Libby was surprised to see her long eyelashes were wet. ‘And there’s something I ought to tell you.’

  ‘Should you not tell the police?’

  ‘I’d rather tell you. After all, you’re in with them, aren’t you?’

  ‘Er – well – yes.’ Libby crossed her fingers over her handbag. ‘Should I fetch my colleague? She’s just over there.’

  ‘No.’ Wilhelmina shot a look towards the buffet, where Diggory was in conversation with a tail-coated individual of imposing aspect.

  ‘Yes, I was going to ask, what’s he doing here?’ said Libby, following her gaze. ‘Come to think of it, what are you doing here?’

  ‘He does outside catering. Didn’t you know?’ Wilhelmina looked at Libby. ‘That’s why I’m here. He takes pity on me every now and then and hires me as a waitress. I’m crap at it, but it helps with the rent.’

  ‘Who hires him?’ asked Libby. ‘Anderson Place or the client?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Wilhelmina. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better get moving or he’ll be down on me like a ton of bricks,’ said Wilhelmina, turning to face the guests once more. ‘He won’t want me talking to you.’

  ‘So why did you want to?’

  ‘Not now. Can I ring you up? Or come and see you?’

  ‘When people say that they often don’t do it,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll come to you if you’ll tell me where. And don’t tell anyone you’re going to talk to me, either.’

  Scenarios from various television police dramas played through her head showing her pictures of Wilhelmina’s battered body, cut down before she could tell her tale.

  ‘All right. I’ve got a flat in Nethergate. Just off Marine Parade. “Marine View” it’s called.’

  ‘I know it,’ nodded Libby.

  ‘Do you?’ Wilhelmina looked surprised.

  ‘Yes. I used to know someone who lived in the same road,’ said Libby, omitting any mention of the murderer who had also stayed there. ‘When shall I come?’

  ‘When you like. Here.’ She fished in the pocket of the tiny apron she wore over her skirt. ‘I scribbled this down when I saw you come in. Ring me.’

  Libby looked down at the number scrawled on a scrap of paper. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Please take care of yourself.’

  Wilhelmina’s face twisted in a parody of a smile. ‘Sure,’ she said.

  Libby took another glass of champagne and went in search of her party. She found them talking to Sir Jonathan, who had put in his usual appearance to check that his guests were happy.

  ‘Do you hire the caterers, Jonathan?’ she asked after being courteously greeted with a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Sometimes, I believe so,’ he replied, his eyebrows raised. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was surprised to see Richard Diggory here,’ she said.

  ‘Ah!’ Sir Jonathan twinkled beneath his white eyebrows. ‘Diggory’s bakery supplies us regularly. His catering service is small – he’s only probably here for the cake.’

  ‘Ah! That makes sense,’ said Libby, turning to where she could see the impressive three-tier construction set on a side table. ‘I didn’t think he would bring waiting staff too, though.’

  ‘I believe they often bring staff to swell the numbers,’ said Sir Jonathan.

  ‘Right.’ Libby nodded.

  ‘What was all that about?’ hissed Fran when Sir Jonathan moved away to talk to the bride and groom.

  Libby told her as much as she could of her conversation with Wilhelmina. ‘I suppose it isn’t a coincidence after all,’ she finished. ‘Diggory’s a baker and confectioner – of course he’s likely to have made the cake.’

  ‘And you’re going to see Wilhelmina?’

  ‘I hope so. I just kept thinking of all those TV programmes where the witnesses say I’ll tell you all tomorrow, and then are found dead before they can say anything.’ She shivered. ‘Scary.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll go home with Diggory tonight and be safe,’ said Fran. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘You’ll never guess,’ said Libby. ‘In the same road as Sue Warner. Remember the house called “Marine View” and we said the servants in the attics would have been the only ones who could have seen the sea? Well, that’s it.’

  ‘Good lord.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Shall I come?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘
When I asked if I could bring you over just now she said no, but that was because she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She’s given me her number, so I’ll ring before I go and ask her.’

  After the buffet, the speeches and the cutting of the cake, Libby looked round for Wilhelmina, but she was nowhere to be seen. Diggory had taken the cake into the kitchens, presumably to divide it into guest-size pieces. Perhaps Wilhelmina would reappear handing it out.

  But neither of them reappeared, and Libby was left wondering if she would, in fact, ever see Wilhelmina again.

  After six o’clock, evening guests drifted in and the party took off. Terry’s talented sister unsurprisingly had a cabaret spot during the evening, playing the piano and singing, and a local band supplied danceable music the rest of the time. Jane and Terry floated round the marquee on a cloud of champagne and happiness, and, all in all, Libby thought, it was the third lovely wedding she been to in the last couple of years. The thought did make her wonder if she should be planning her own, but the involuntary shudder it provoked made her reconsider immediately. Poor Ben, she thought, stealing a look at him as he danced gracefully with Jane’s mother, who was visibly thawing.

  On the way back to Allhallow’s Lane, as they shared a people carrier taxi back to the village, Libby invited Harry and Peter to join them for a nightcap.

  ‘She looked lovely, didn’t she?’ said Libby, when they arrived. ‘Gorgeous dress.’

  ‘All brides are lovely,’ said Guy, sitting on the arm of Fran’s chair. ‘Especially mine.’

  ‘Oh gawd,’ said Harry. ‘Young lurve.’

  ‘Not so young, whippersnapper,’ said Guy. ‘You were, though.’

  ‘Old married couple now, aren’t we, me old dutch?’ He poked Peter with his foot from his place on the hearthrug.

  ‘Don’t you start taking me for granted,’ said Peter. ‘I’m still a desirable property.’

  ‘Anyway, I agree with Lib,’ said Fran. ‘She did look lovely. And Terry looked so smart. His mum’s nice, isn’t she?’

  ‘So’s his sister,’ said Ben, ‘But Jane’s mother. How difficult is she?’

  ‘We told you that last year,’ said Fran, ‘when we went to see her in London.’

  ‘And Jane wants her to live with them? She’s mad.’ Harry lifted his glass for a refill.

  ‘She’s not, you know,’ said Libby getting to her feet and fetching the gin bottle. ‘Her mother would always be on at her to go up to London to look after her as she gets older, and Jane’s still upset that she wasn’t nearer when her aunt died. If her mother’s in the flat downstairs, she’s independent but Jane and Terry are on hand. I think it’s a great idea. I’m busy planting it in Ad’s mind already.’

  ‘Adam?’ scoffed Harry. ‘He couldn’t look after himself, let alone anyone else.’

  ‘Come off it, Harry,’ said Peter. ‘He’s a sensible young man, is Adam. And he’s holding down two jobs. Yours and the one at Creekmarsh. And even the flat over the caff’s quite clean and tidy.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby was interested. ‘Can I come and have a look?’

  ‘No.’ Harry glared at her. ‘He’d never trust me again.’

  ‘So,’ said Ben, deeming it wise to change the subject, ‘you found out what Diggory was doing there.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Libby. ‘You were there. It was obvious really.’

  ‘Diggory?’ said Harry surprised.

  ‘Who’s Diggory?’ asked Peter, whose life as a journalist in London precluded him from knowing a lot about Libby’s various, and nefarious, doings.

  ‘He’s a baker,’ said Libby, ‘and he’s involved in this funny cult with Cranston Morris, where Bill Frensham was killed. And he knew John Lethbridge who was also killed. And he’s friends with Lethbridge’s wife, who was there today as a waitress. He made the wedding cake, by the way.’

  ‘Right,’ said Peter, wrinkling a patrician brow and pushing back a lock of straight blond hair. ‘I think I get all that. Does this mean you two are up to your old tricks again. Miss Marple and Miss Silver join forces?’

  ‘No!’ said Libby and Fran, while Harry was heard to mutter ‘Miss Silver? Who’s Miss Silver?’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ said Guy. ‘Libby was asked by a member of this Morris side, then Fran was asked by her old flame.’

  ‘Oh, yes! I didn’t see him there tonight,’ said Libby, hoping to change the subject again.

  ‘No,’ said Fran. ‘Jane said he’d sent his apologies, but he was called out.’

  ‘Well, I’m not terribly distressed about that,’ said Guy, with a grin.

  ‘Oh, you!’ said Fran, giving him a nudge which nearly sent him off the arm of the chair.

  The conversation turned in another direction and Libby relaxed. She didn’t want anyone peering too closely at her proposed activities, which she had a strong suspicion might appear dangerous to those of her friends who had been involved involuntarily in her past escapades. She thought particularly of the adventure last year where she, Fran, Ben and Guy had all been in the way of a murderer, and not only interrupted a failed attempt at burglary, but she and Fran had been attacked personally.

  Taking a healthy swallow of scotch, she put it all from her mind and set out to be entertaining.

  Chapter Thirty

  ON SUNDAY MORNING LIBBY braced herself to tell Ben she was going over to Nethergate. She could hardly say she was going to interview a suspect, and as she’d spent most of the previous day, and breakfast that morning, with Fran, she couldn’t use visiting the Wolfes as an excuse.

  However, Ben announced as soon as Fran and Guy had left that he was going up to Steeple Farm if Libby didn’t mind, and he would see her at the Manor around one o’clock for lunch.

  ‘Won’t you come back here to change?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘No, I don’t need to. I’ve kept some overalls at the farm. What will you do?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Washing? Change the spare bed?’

  ‘They’ve only just got out of it,’ grinned Ben. ‘You’re not usually that efficient.’

  But he left it at that and disappeared as soon as he’d helped clear away the breakfast things. Libby watched him drive away and then scrabbled in her handbag for Wilhelmina’s phone number.

  It rang for a long time, and Libby’s heart was beginning to beat uncomfortably fast when a sleepy voice answered.

  ‘Wilhelmina?’ said Libby. ‘It’s Libby Sarjeant. You said you’d like to meet. I’m free this morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ It sounded as though Wilhelmina was struggling to sit up. ‘Sorry I was still asleep. What time is it?’

  ‘After ten,’ said Libby, trying to keep disapproval out of her voice. After all, she frequently stayed in bed until after ten on a Sunday herself.

  ‘Do you want to come over, then?’

  ‘If you still want to talk to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilhelmina, her voice stronger. ‘I do. I need some advice.’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘Can I bring my friend with me? She’s the clever one in our investigations. I promise you, she’s very discreet.’

  ‘She the one who sees ghosts?’

  ‘Ghosts? No. But you’ve obviously heard of her.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘She can see things, can’t she?’

  ‘Some things, yes.’

  ‘That sounds a bit – well, dangerous.’

  ‘She’s never actually had a vision of somebody killing someone else,’ said Libby.

  ‘Right.’ More silence. ‘OK, then. Give me an hour. You know where it is?’

  ‘I know where it is,’ said Libby, and rang off.

  ‘Lib, I’ve only just got in,’ complained Fran, when appealed to. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to say to Guy.’

  ‘You said he didn’t mind you taking an interest. Anyway, won’t he be opening the shop? It’s a summer Sunday – good for trade.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘Where shall I meet you?�
��

  ‘On the prom,’ said Libby, ‘And we can always have an ice cream afterwards if we don’t take long.’

  Déjà vu, thought Libby an hour later as she waited for Fran on the promenade at Nethergate. In the second adventure she and Fran had together they had come to Nethergate (Fran didn’t live there then) and watched elderly holiday-makers braving the summer weather. It was much the same today, sea whipped up into meringue points, threatening steely clouds in the sky and a nasty little wind blowing up swirls of dust and sweet wrappers. Thank goodness yesterday had been sunny. Libby turned and looked up at Cliff Terrace, where Jane and Terry lived in Peel House. Not that they were there now, of course.

  ‘Ready then?’

  Libby turned to face Fran and beamed. ‘Come on then,’ she said.

  Marine View was a tall Victorian house in a terrace. Most of the others appeared to be guest houses, but this one was divided into flats. Libby found the bell marked Lethbridge and pushed.

  ‘Nothing as fancy as an entryphone,’ she said, as they waited for a response. Eventually the wide front door opened a crack and Wilhelmina’s tousled head appeared.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, standing back.

  Libby and Fran trooped in and waited for her to close the door and lead the way. Libby couldn’t help comparing the way she looked now with the glossy image she’d presented yesterday and last Saturday. Her hair stood out round her head in a halo of spikes, her eye make-up had slipped under her eyes and her lipstick had spread up to her nose and down to her chin. Grey sweat pants and a grubby T-shirt completed the effect. Exchanging glances with Fran, she followed Wilhelmina up the stairs.

  The flat was on the first floor. The front room had tall windows and a beautiful fireplace which had been boarded up. Wilhelmina sat down on a sagging sofa and indicated chairs on the other side of the room.

  ‘This is Fran Castle,’ said Libby.

  ‘Wolfe,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh, yes. I keep forgetting. Fran Wolfe. She’s just got married.’ Libby leant forward. ‘So, what did you want to talk to us about? You said you wanted advice.’