‘Isn’t it fenced?’
‘Ha-has aren’t fenced,’ scoffed Libby. ‘Don’t you know that?’
‘All right, all right. I’m not up on gardening terms. What does Ben say?’
‘He’s being very long-suffering about it,’ said Libby. ‘Lots of sighs.’
‘Oh dear. Still, it won’t be for long, will it?’
‘No, thank goodness. Meanwhile, Ben keeps taking himself off to Steeple Farm to do strange things with beams and floorboards, and I’ve got to take over the fairy as well as directing, which means we can both keep out of Ad’s way in the evenings.’
‘Poor Adam!’ laughed Fran.
‘He is a bit grumpy,’ conceded Libby, ‘but with a bit of luck he’ll get fed up and go back to his own flat.’
‘I thought you said he needed looking after?’
‘He did, for the first couple of days, but he could move around the flat now, especially as it’s all on one level. Here he has to come downstairs to the sitting room and kitchen. He demanded a television in his room the first few days. Cheek.’
‘So he’s putting it on a bit?’
‘Of course. Just like a man.’ Libby sighed. ‘Not like our poor fairy.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘I told you, the cow fell on her. Broke her leg. She’s furious.’
‘Won’t she better in time for the run?’
Libby sighed again. ‘Plaster for at least six weeks, the hospital said. And as we open on the first Monday in January she’ll have missed all the rehearsals.’
‘You’ve played the fairy before,’ consoled Fran. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘I’m too old,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘I’d rather be the witch.’
She put the phone down and stared out of the window. December had started dripping wet. The tiny green opposite the house was almost a lake, and Romeo the Renault looked in imminent danger of sinking.
‘Mu-um!’
Closing her eyes and breathing out heavily, Libby turned towards the stairs.
‘What?’
‘Any chance of some tea?’
‘If you came down here you could get it yourself.’
‘Mum! I can’t keep going up and down on my leg.’ Adam sounded indignant.
‘You can get about on the level, though,’ said Libby. ‘All right. In a moment.’
Muttering to herself, she went into the kitchen. Sidney, on the cane sofa in front of the unlit fire, put his ears back as she passed. The heavy kettle was already on the edge of the Rayburn waiting to be brought to a full boil, so she moved it and fetched the old brown teapot. Might as well make a proper pot and have one herself, she thought. It was mid-afternoon.
The tea made, she carried a mug up to Adam, who was lying on the bed in the spare room playing games on his laptop.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘You know you love me really.’
‘Don’t bet on it.’ Libby sat on the side of the bed. ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in Harry’s flat now? You’d be all on one level there.’
Adam’s face took on a pained expression. ‘I can’t stand for long, Mum. What about meals?’
Libby sighed. ‘OK, OK, I know. But I can’t keep running up and down like this, you know.’
‘Ben will be here, though, won’t he?’ said Adam hopefully.
‘Not much,’ said Libby. ‘He’s going to Steeple Farm to get it all finished off. They want to let it after Christmas.’
‘Good Christmas house, that,’ commented Adam. ‘You could have all of us there with no problem.’
Libby looked at him with dislike. ‘I’m going downstairs,’ she said.
Of course, Adam was right. Steeple Farm was a large thatched farmhouse belonging to a member of Ben’s family. Ben, her mostly significant other, was restoring it and had hoped to persuade Libby to move into it from her small cottage in the village, but Libby loved her cottage, she loved Allhallow’s Lane and she loved being in the centre of Steeple Martin. So, for the moment, they were both squashed into Number 17, with the addition, currently, of Adam. Libby peered once more out of the window at the darkening sky and turned to the fireplace.
‘A fire, Sidney,’ she said. ‘That’s what we want. We need cheering up.’ Sidney’s ears twitched again and his nose got pushed even more firmly under his tail. Libby creaked down on to her knees and began riddling the grate. She had just got her fingers suitably covered in coal dust and firelighter when her phone rang. Libby swore.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked the voice on the other end.
‘I’m lighting a fire.’
‘And it’s annoying you?’
‘No, you are, Harry. I’m covered in coal dust, and so is the phone now.’
‘Ring me back when you’re clean, then,’ said Harry. ‘I want to have a chat.’
Libby returned to the fire. Harry co-owned The Pink Geranium vegetarian restaurant in the village with his life partner Peter, who also happened to be Ben’s cousin. Libby had known Harry and Peter for several years; in fact it had been they who helped her find Number 17 Allhallow’s Lane in what they called “The search for Bide-a-Wee”. Now Adam, Libby’s youngest child, lived in the flat above The Pink Geranium, where he helped out in the evenings to augment his earnings as an assistant to a garden designer and landscaper.
Libby had listened to Harry’s concerns over several matters in the last few years, from his last foray into heterosexuality to the arrangements for his civil partnership ceremony. He, in turn, had listened to more than his fair share of Libby’s troubles and anxieties, most frequently her ambivalence in her relationship with Ben and her rather unwholesome interest in local murders. It occurred to her, rather shamefacedly, that Harry had been more of a support to her than she had to him, so she must make the time to listen properly and help in any way she could.
‘But I can’t do that!’ she exclaimed down the phone ten minutes later, sitting on the cane sofa in front of a now nicely blazing fire.
‘Why not?’ said Harry. ‘You’ve peered into other people’s private lives in the past – and without their permission, too. At least this time someone’s asking you to do it.’
‘No, they aren’t,’ said Libby, feeling hot and uncomfortable. ‘You’re the one asking me to do it. This poor man wanted your help. You suggested me.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it,’ said Harry. ‘All I’m asking you to do is look into some rather nasty letters Cy’s had. And his panto gives you the perfect opportunity.’
‘Harry, I’m taking over the fairy here as well as directing,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t possibly get involved with another panto.’
There was a short silence. ‘Ah,’ said Harry.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Libby. ‘If you can tell me a bit more about it, I could p’raps ask Fran what she thinks?’
‘I don’t think he wants anyone else knowing,’ said Harry slowly, ‘but I suppose I could take you to meet him. How would that be?’
‘Embarrassing,’ said Libby. ‘Couldn’t you just tell me and see if I come up with anything?’
‘I don’t know all the background,’ said Harry, ‘but I suppose I could tell you what he told me.’
‘Go ahead, then.’ Libby settled back into the sofa.
‘Face to face, Lib.’
Libby sighed. ‘Come and have a cup of tea, then,’ she said, ‘or are you busy prepping up for this evening?’
‘No, most of it’s done. I’ll pop round and then I can have a word with the invalid at the same time, can’t I?’
‘You can try and talk him into going back to the flat, too,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle back on.’
‘And I’ll bring some of that carrot cake you like,’ said Harry. ‘See you in a minute.’
Ten minutes later, Harry breezed into the sitting room shaking water from his navy pea coat and handing over a large greaseproof paper parcel.
‘I’ll dash up and say hello to old peg-leg
first,’ he said, hanging his coat on the hook in the tiny vestibule. ‘Or he’ll hear me and start shouting.’
Libby put mugs, teapot, milk, and sugar and cake on a tray and carried them into the sitting room, where she switched on the two lamps either side of the fire and sat down, shifting Sidney out of the way. Harry appeared in the doorway and she waved him to the armchair.
‘Now,’ she said, pouring tea into mugs. ‘Who is this Cy, and what is this all about? I’m warning you, I’m not ever getting involved in any more murders, so it had better not be that.’
Harry raised his eyebrows.
‘Not ever?’ he said.
More Libby Sarjeant Murder Mysteries
Murder in Steeple Martin
Artist and ex-actress Libby is busy directing a play for the opening of a new theatre in her village when one of her cast is found murdered. The play, written by her friend Peter, is based on real events in his family, disturbing and mysterious, which took place in the village during the last war.
As the investigation into the murder begins to uncover a tangled web of relationships in the village, it seems that the events dramatised in the play still cast a long shadow, dark enough to inspire murder.
Libby’s natural nosiness soon leads her into the thick of the investigation, but is she too close to Peter’s family, and in particular his cousin Ben, to be able to recognise the murderer?
Murder at the Laurels
Steeple Martin amateur detective Libby’s friend, and sleuthing partner, psychic investigator Fran Castle, suspects that there is something suspicious about the death of her aunt in a nursing home. When Fran’s long-lost relatives turn up and seem either unconcerned or obstructive, Libby and Fran are sure something is wrong, particularly as the will is missing.
As usual Libby needs little persuasion to start investigating, even if she doesn’t see herself as Miss Marple. They discover surprising links to Fran’s own past but, as the murders multiply and the police take over, can the amateur sleuths keep on the trail?
Murder in Midwinter
Kent village sleuth Libby and her psychic investigator friend Fran befriend Bella Morleigh, who has inherited a derelict theatre. When an unknown body is discovered inside the theatre, they feel duty bound to help with the investigation.
Although Libby is rather distracted by the preparations for her friends’ Civil Partnership ceremony, she’s getting the hang of using a computer to dig for information. However, when a second body is found it is one of Fran’s psychic moments that makes the connection between the deaths; a connection with startling results.
Murder by the Sea
Psychic investigator Fran Castle gets a request from the police to help when a body is discovered on a rocky island in the middle of Nethergate Bay. Libby Sarjeant is on the case too, as they delve into the shameful world of the exploitation of illegal immigrants.
Libby’s partner Ben is concerned that her occasionally over-enthusiastic investigations might get her into trouble: his worries seem justified as Libby and Fran get on the trail of a war-time fascist spy and they become a nuisance to a killer.
Murder in Bloom
Middle-aged artist-come-investigator Libby’s son Adam has uncovered a body with his rotovator in Creekmarsh Place, where he is working as a gardener for TV personality Lewis Osbourne-Walker.
The police seem to think there is no connection with the current owner but Libby, naturally, can’t just leave it at that. With Fran’s mind on other things, Libby has to go it alone.
A murder in London inspires the police to dig deeper and Libby, determined to help her new friend Lewis, stirs up more mud than Adam’s rotovator.
Murder Imperfect
When sleuth-come-pantomime director Libby learns of threatening letters sent to a friend of her friend Harry, at first she assumes it’s just anti-gay prejudice.
With her partner Ben having moved in to her cottage, and son Adam also at home nursing a broken leg, as well as having the panto to cope with, Libby is at first reluctant to get involved. However, when murder follows, Libby and Fran are drawn into another investigation in which the shadows of the past have a dramatic effect on the present, with dangerous consequences for them both.
Murder to Music
In her eighth case, amateur detective Libby and her friend Fran are invited to look into a house that is reputedly haunted. For once, Libby can be as nosy as she likes without being accused of getting in the way of a police investigation.
However, when they unearth 50-year-old graves in the gardens, the police are bound to cramp their style. Someone alive today doesn’t want them interfering either, and their lives are in danger as they try to unravel the mystery of a ghost who plays Debussy.
Murder in the Green - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 28
