Murder After Midnight

Book 22: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Amateur Sleuth

Synopsis

'With fascinating characters and an intriguing plot, this is a real page turner' KATIE FFORDE
'Lesley Cookman is the Queen of Cosy Crime' PAUL MAGRS

A new year dawns over the sleepy coastal town of Heronsbourne and brings with it a brand-new case for amateur sleuth Libby Sarjeant.

When a woman's body is found on the local golf course after an illicit New Year's party, news quickly spreads, and Libby finds herself being tracked down by locals desperate to share information about the victim, Jackie Stapleton.

But things are never that simple in Libby's world. Whilst everyone had an opinion on Jackie, it seems nobody really knew much about her. Libby's chum DCI Connell is being more tight-lipped than usual, and even with her friend Fran Wolfe's help, discovering a motive for the killing is frustratingly difficult.

Is the murder linked to some distinctly dodgy dealing, a dispute with the local golf club, or something far more sinister - a ghost from Libby's past?

Gripping and compulsive, Murder After Midnight is the latest instalment in the much-loved Libby Sarjeant series by Lesley Cookman. Perfect for fans of Faith Martin, J. R. Ellis and LJ Ross.

Readers LOVE the Libby Sarjeant series:

'I've read all of the books in this series and love them all' 5* Reader Review

'Just can't get enough of reading about Libby and her friends' 5* Reader Review

'Libby's gang are like old friends and I was hooked from the start' 5* Reader Review

'Love this series, roll on the next one!' 5* Reader Review

'I adore the characters and the village. I wish I could live on All Hallows Lane and be a part of this gang. Hoping for a new novel soon. Highly recommend' 5* Reader Review

'The characters are so likeable. I would love to visit the mythical Steeple Martin!' 5* Reader Review

(P) 2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: August 19, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

‘Did you hear about the murder over near Heronsbourne?’ asked the Reverend Patti Pearson one Wednesday evening in the pub.

‘No!’ Libby Sarjeant sat up straight. ‘What murder?’

‘I’m surprised, you knowing Lewis Osbourne-Walker so well.’ Patti grinned.

‘What’s he got to do with it?’ asked Libby, alarmed.

‘Well, his estate borders the golf course, doesn’t it?’

Lewis owned the Creekmarsh estate and conference-cum-wedding venue, and ran it with the help of his mother Edie.

‘Golf course?’ echoed Libby.

Libby’s partner, Ben Wilde, groaned softly. ‘Why did you mention murder?’

‘You’ll have to explain now,’ said Patti’s friend and partner Anne Douglas, laughing.

‘Come on, Patti.’ Libby leant forward across the table. ‘Explain!’

‘You know the golf course, I suppose?’

‘It leads off the road past Heronsbourne on the way to Creekmarsh, doesn’t it?’ said Ben. ‘Borders the shoreline.’

Patti nodded. ‘Well, they found a body there the other day.’

‘And it was – suspicious?’

‘You’re hanging this out, young Patti.’ Peter Parker, tall and ascetic, with fair hair flopping artistically over his brow, returned from the bar with a tray of drinks. ‘As far as was reported, Libby, dear sleuth, it was believed to be connected to a rather wild New Year’s Eve party in the clubhouse. And this has revived all the ire of local protesters over the redevelopment.’

‘Now you’re doing it!’ burst out Libby. ‘I don’t know anything about this! And why don’t I?’

‘Even I knew about the redevelopment row,’ said Ben. ‘What happened was—’

‘Hello, dear hearts.’ Harry Price, Peter’s partner and chef-patron of The Pink Geranium restaurant, appeared among them. ‘I’m gasping.’

‘You’re early,’ said Libby.

‘Very quiet. First week in January, ain’t it? No one’s got any money to go gadding about to restaurants. Now, what were you talking about?’

‘Murder!’ said everybody.

‘Oh, gadzooks!’ said Harry, leaning back in his chair. ‘We’ve only just got over the last one!’

‘I was just explaining,’ said Ben, while Peter went to fetch Harry’s drink. ‘The Heronsbourne Golf Club was having a bit of a problem – oh, must be four years ago? Five? Falling numbers, that sort of thing; people don’t want to join a club with ridiculous rules on clothing and women’s membership, and a fairly tatty clubhouse.’

‘I’ll say,’ said Harry gloomily. ‘I did some catering there once.’

‘So they decided – the committee did – to sell it off and close the club.’

‘I bet that went down well,’ said Anne.

Ben nodded. ‘Exactly. So that was the first protest.’

‘The first?’ said Libby.

‘Yes. The members revolted. So in the end the proposal was revised, and they sold off a corner of it next to the creek – you remember the creek? – and built three or four luxury houses, right opposite where the sailing club used to be on the edge of Lewis’s land. Then they relaxed some of the rules – losing a few members in the process – and decided to build a new clubhouse in order to cash in on the thriving party and wedding reception market. And that was the second protest.’

‘Why? Good idea, I’d have thought,’ said Harry.

‘Access is by a private drive leading off the Heronsbourne road, and there are a few very nice properties along there. The owners argued that there would be an increase in late-night drunken behaviour, bad parking – you know the sort of thing. And the residents of Heronsbourne felt much the same.’

Libby was staring at her beloved with her mouth open. ‘How on earth do you know all this?’

Ben laughed. ‘Don’t forget I’ve been mixing with builders and decorators over at The Hop Pocket for the last six months! They get about.’

‘OK – so what has this got to do with murder?’ asked Harry.

‘A body was found on the golf course last week,’ said Patti.

‘And apparently there are two schools of thought – one that it was after a rowdy New Year’s Eve party in the new clubhouse, and another that it was something to do with the protesters,’ said Anne.

‘Doesn’t seem likely to me,’ said Peter. ‘And please, my dear old trout,’ he waved a forefinger at Libby, ‘don’t go poking your nose in.’

‘No reason to, have I?’ replied Libby, and returned to her drink.

The following morning Libby’s phone rang.

‘Morning, Lib!’ came Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s cheerful cockney voice.

‘Lewis! How are you? Haven’t heard from you since before Christmas.’

‘Oh, I’m all right. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. How’s Edie?’

‘Yeah, she’s fine too. Listen, Lib—’

‘Patti was telling us about the murder at the golf club near you the other day. What have you heard about it?’’

‘Ah.’ Lewis’s voice changed. ‘Well . . . actually, that was why I was calling.’ He sighed heavily.

‘And?’ said Libby, when he seemed to want a prompt.

‘It’s nothing, in a way, but . . .’

‘Come on, Lewis! You wouldn’t have called me if you weren’t involved.’

‘Not involved exactly, but . . . Well, I’m sort of on the edge, if you know what I mean.’

‘Not really, no. What do you mean?’

There was a short pause.

‘You remember the creek? Well, on the other side of the creek is the golf course. There’s a sort of private drive that runs alongside the houses there. Big new ones.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard about them, and the protests.’

‘That’s what I got involved in. The protests.’

‘You?’ Libby was surprised. ‘I didn’t think you were into all that.’

‘Not normally, no, but people kept asking me.’ Lewis gave a nervous laugh, ‘it was very awkward.’

‘I can imagine,’ Libby made a face. ‘Which side were you on?’

‘That was the trouble – neither. Look . . .’ Lewis sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you could come over, could you?’

‘Is it that urgent?’ Now Libby was worried.

‘Probably not. It’s just – I just need to talk to someone.’

‘What about Edie?’ Lewis’s mum was a down to earth Londoner.

‘I don’t want to worry her.’

‘If she sees me there she’ll worry straight away.’

Lewis laughed. ‘Don’t worry about Edie. Can you come?’

‘When?’

‘Er – soon as you like?’

Libby did a quick review of her day. ‘After lunch?’

‘You can come to lunch here if you like.’

‘That would mean getting involved with Edie.’

‘That’s a point. OK, after lunch. Or – how about meeting at The Fox for a sandwich?’

‘Are Frank and Bren still there?’

‘Yeah – still plodding on. I think he’s got a bit of an emotional attachment to the place.’

‘OK – good idea. About one?’

After she hung up, Libby sat for a moment thinking, then called Fran.

‘Hello,’ said Fran warily. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Why would you think anything’s happened? Can’t I phone for friendly chat?’

‘Not at eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning, no. Friendly chats are at teatime.’

‘Oh . . .’

‘Come on, out with it.’

‘Lewis just rang,’ said Libby in a rush.

‘That’s nice. How is he?’

‘No, listen – he wants our help. Well, mine anyway.’

‘You’re not making sense.’ Fran sounded impatient. ‘If you’re getting us involved with something so soon after the last one . . .’

‘Er—’

‘You are! Oh, Libby!’

‘Listen.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘Patti came to the pub last night and asked if I’d heard about the murder at Heronsbourne Golf Club.’

‘Don’t think I remember a golf course at Heronsbourne.’

‘I didn’t either. Anyway, there is one and last week, New Year, I think, they found a body there. So this morning, just now, in fact, Lewis rang up and asked me over for a chat because he says he’s involved in some way.’

‘In the murder?’ Fran was horrified.

‘With the protests at the golf club, I think. It’s quite complicated. So I’ve agreed to meet him at The Fox for lunch. Frank and Bren are still there.’

‘I can’t come,’ said Fran instantly.

‘I’m not asking you to,’ said Libby with a sigh. ‘I just thought you might be interested.’

‘Ring me when you get back from seeing Lewis.’

‘At teatime?’ Libby grinned.

‘At teatime,’ confirmed Fran.

It was a typical grey and gloomy January day as Libby drove along the coast road towards Creekmarsh. She kept an eye out for the turning to the golf club, which was easy to spot as it sported a shiny new sign announcing itself. Funny she’d never noticed it before. Opposite the turning to Creekmarsh and the little church, she pulled in beside The Fox, a slightly lopsided, seventeenth-century building. She was the only one in the car park.

‘’S all right! I’m here!’ Lewis appeared in the doorway. ‘I walked up. If Edie had heard the car, she’d have wanted to know where I was going.’

Libby allowed herself to be kissed on the cheek. ‘So what’s this all about then?’

‘What d’you want to drink first? And eat? Bren does a great sausage bake.’

‘Will she make me a cup of tea, do you think?’ Libby sat down at a table near the fireplace. ‘And OK, I’ll have the sausage bake.’

Food and drink ordered, Lewis came and sat opposite her and looked into the fire.

‘Come on, Lewis. Out with it.’ Libby slipped out of her coat.

He frowned at her. ‘What happened to your cape? You always wore your cape.’

‘It got tatty. Don’t change the subject.’

‘Right.’ Lewis sighed. ‘Well, you’ve already heard about the protests about the golf club, you said.’

‘Yes.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘First that they were going to close it, then they were going to build new houses and a new clubhouse. Apparently the local residents were worried there would be more noise. Is that right?’

‘More or less,’ said Lewis gloomily.

‘And who wanted you involved?’

‘The members of the club approached me, saying what a crying shame it would be to close them down, but I told ’em what I thought of their pettifogging rules. They didn’t like that.’ He smiled reminiscently.

‘And the residents?’

‘That was a bit later, after they’d sold off the little bit of land and had the houses built there. Then they wanted to rebuild the clubhouse and turn it into a venue. The residents didn’t like that because of the increased noise—’

‘And increase in drunken behaviour. Yes, I heard.’

‘Well, I didn’t mind them rebuilding the clubhouse, but we already have The Fox and my place, although Creekmarsh caters for a different sort, really.’

‘Yes, weddings and conferences and stuff like that.’ Libby nodded. ‘So you joined that protest?’

‘Not officially, especially when they started trying to stop lorries getting up the access road. It all got a bit – er – oh, I dunno.’

‘Militant?’ suggested Libby.

‘S’pose so. But there was this other group. Residents who did want the venue. Like that girl.’

‘What – the victim?’

‘Yeah. Jackie something.’

Libby thought for a moment. ‘How did you hear about all this?’

Lewis jerked his head towards the bar. ‘Bren, mostly.’

‘Bren didn’t want the venue?’

‘She wasn’t that worried, although Frank was a bit annoyed. She said the sort of dos they have here are more family parties for regulars and not the same thing at all, although she was a bit worried about the noise – loud music and that sort of thing.’

Libby sat back and regarded him, head on one side. ‘So where do you come in? Why did you want to talk to me?’

‘That girl. Jackie, She tried to talk Bren round.’

‘So?’

‘And she had a go at me.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘A right go.’

‘When?’

‘The night she was killed.’

Libby stared. ‘You’re joking!’

Lewis gave a miserable little laugh. ‘Wish I was.’

‘So what happened? Where were you?’

Frank arrived just then with their sausage bakes, followed by Bren with Libby’s cup of tea. When they had retreated to the bar, Lewis returned to his story.

‘We had a sort of party, see, for all the employees, it being New Year. Nothing formal, just a jolly. And Jackie, well, she’d done a bit of casual waiting for me during the summer. So she came along with a couple of the other girls.’

‘And had a go at you while enjoying your hospitality? What a bloody cheek!’

‘She started off by saying we were too posh for this sort of thing. Me! Posh!’

Libby was amused. ‘But you do provide a very upmarket venue and standard of catering.’

Lewis brightened. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Oh, Lewis! Of course you do.’

‘Anyway, she went on and on, telling me I should be supporting ordinary people, not . . . well, she wasn’t very nice about my clients.’

‘I can imagine. Where does she live, this girl?’

‘Not so much a girl, really. In her thirties maybe? Lives down the road a bit. Pedlar’s Row in Heronsbourne. Near The Red Lion. Or lived . . .’

‘I know it well,’ said Libby. ‘Fran and I got quite friendly with George at The Red Lion.’

Lewis sighed. ‘Is there a publican you don’t know in the area?’

‘What happened next?’ asked Libby, ignoring this sally.

‘I asked her to leave. Well, she was upsetting everybody, not just me.’

‘So not universally liked then?’

‘Didn’t seem to be. None of the others went with her. Mum was a bit put out.’

‘Edie wouldn’t approve of bad manners, would she?’ said Libby.

‘No,’ said Lewis, smiling. ‘Mum’s old school.’

‘I wonder where she went next.’ Libby dug into her sausage bake. ‘What time did she leave?’

‘Oh, Gawd, I don’t know. Nine-thirty? Ten-ish? I’m afraid we all forgot about her after that.’

‘Have the police spoken to you yet?’

‘No.’ Lewis looked up nervously. ‘D’you think I should tell ’em?’

‘I would, before someone else does.’

‘Who?’

‘One of the other guests at the party. They’ll have asked around to find out where she was. Did she live with anyone?’

‘No idea. I don’t even know if she was from round here. Wasn’t from London, anyhow.’

‘Well,’ said Libby, ‘I think you should talk to the police and I’ll go to The Red Lion and see if George knows anything about her. He used to know everybody in Pedlar’s Row.’

‘Did he?’ Lewis looked interested.

‘It’s a long story.’ Libby grinned at him. ‘One day, I’ll write a book.’

‘No one’d believe it.’ Lewis grinned back. ‘Who do I speak to in the police? Lovely Ian?’

‘I don’t know who’s in charge of this, but probably no one we know. Do you know anyone at the golf club?’

‘Couple of people.’ Lewis pulled a face. ‘I’m not their sort. Why?’

‘They’d know who’s in charge. They’ll have been asked.’

Lewis sighed. ‘All right, I’ll ask.’

Frank appeared at the table.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked. ‘You look a bit serious.’

‘Oh, it’s this murder,’ said Lewis. ‘I don’t s’pose you’ve been questioned by the cops, have you?’

Frank beamed. ‘’Course we have! We came up in all the protests, so there we are – a couple with a motive.’

‘You?’ Libby was shocked. ‘Why?’

‘We were supposed to be against this venue business. We didn’t think it would affect us, but there. The police have always been a bit suspicious of us since that other business.’

‘Stupid buggers,’ said Lewis.

‘Why did you want to know anyway?’ asked Frank.

‘Lewis needs to speak to them. Do you know who he should speak to?’

‘What for?’ Frank was frowning.

Lewis explained.

‘Not surprised you threw her out,’ Frank continued. ‘Silly mare. Anyway, I was told to ask for a DS Stone. They all work out of Canterbury these days, so it’ll be that phone number. I reckon you need to look into it, young Libby, you and that Fran.’ Frank looked curiously at Libby. ‘Or is that what you’re here for?’

‘I asked her to come,’ said Lewis. ‘I was worried.’

‘I can see that.’ Frank nodded. ‘So you think she ought to look into it, too.’

‘Look,’ Libby pushed her empty plate away, ‘I am not a detective. I’ve got involved in some of these things entirely by accident! And it’s the police who’ve solved the crimes.’

‘Not without help from you,’ said Frank.

Libby sighed. ‘I’ve said I’ll ask some questions, but I don’t know any of the people involved, so I won’t be much help.’

‘You didn’t know us,’ said Lewis and Frank together.

Libby laughed. ‘I met you, Lewis, through my son, and I met you, Frank, through Lewis. So not quite the same.’

‘Anyway, you’re going to look into it, aren’t you?’ said Lewis hopefully.

‘I told you, I’ll ask some questions.’

Frank gave her a knowing look and returned to the bar.

‘Right, is there anything else you can tell me about the situation?’ Libby leant back and surveyed Lewis.

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know – when exactly she was found? Where?’

‘New Year’s Day and on the golf course. Don’t know any more.’

‘Oh, well, I’ll ask some questions, as I said.’ Libby stood up. ‘Give my love to Edie.’

‘You’re going?’ Lewis looked startled.

‘Yes, I need to get back.’ Libby smiled at him. ‘Thanks for the lunch. I’ll ring you.’

Libby turned right out of the car park and drove back towards Heronsbourne reflecting on what she’d been told. It certainly didn’t seem as though there was anything for Lewis to worry about, or, indeed, much for Libby to look into. But, following her promise, she drew into the familiar car park next to The Red Lion. As usual, George the landlord was sitting at the end of the bar with a newspaper.

‘Well, look who’s here!’ he said, standing up with a broad grin. ‘And I bet I know why.’

‘Oh?’ Libby returned the grin, hoisting herself on to a bar stool.

George brandished the newspaper. ‘This!’

Libby glanced at the headline displayed. ‘Now why would you think that?’

‘Body on the golf course? Soon as there’s a local murder, you turn up.’

Libby sighed. ‘What an indictment. Yes, all right. I was told she lived here, in Pedlar’s Row.’

‘She did that. Just down from your mate’s house, March Cottage.’

‘Not so much a mate, George. Haven’t heard of her for years.’

‘Suppose not,’ said George, looking sombre. ‘Sold ages ago, March Cottage.’

Libby and her best friend, Fran, had first come across March Cottage, Pedlar’s Row, and indeed George himself, during a previous adventure, which had had one happy result in that Fran had adopted Balzac the cat.

‘So, you knew this girl?’

‘Jackie? Yes. Part of a crowd, she was. They come in here regular. Not that I’ve seen her much recently. Want a coffee?’

‘No, thanks, I’ve just had tea up at The Fox.’

George raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve got competition, have I?’

‘I met Lewis there for lunch.’

‘Lewis from Creekmarsh? Hmm. He will have been asked about the golf club business, won’t he?’

‘If you mean the protests, yes. Were you?’

George nodded. ‘Not that it’s anything to do with me. I’m a bit far away for it to cause me any trouble and I don’t do functions, as such. Some of them were all for it, some of young Jackie’s crowd, f’r instance.’

‘Were they?’ Libby leant her elbows on the bar.

‘Stands to reason. Not much to do for youngsters round here. Not that they’re that young, Jackie’s crowd. Thirties and forties mostly.’

‘You know them well, then?’

George put his head on one side, considering. ‘As well as I know most regulars, some better than others. Not real mates, though.’

‘Anyone I could talk to?’

He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Investigation, is it, then?’

Libby shrugged. ‘Lewis wanted my advice. She worked for him sometimes.’

‘Ah. Bit of a handful was she?’

‘We-ell . . .’ said Libby.

‘Ah.’ George nodded. ‘She did like stirring.’

‘That wouldn’t be enough to get her killed, though, would it?’

‘Wouldn’t have thought so,’ said George. ‘But I wouldn’t know. Only thing I can suggest is you come by for a drink one evening, and if any of her mates are in, I’ll introduce you.’

‘Better than nothing, I suppose.’ Libby slid off her stool. ‘Which house in Pedlar’s Row was hers? Do you know?’

‘Not sure. There’s only eight in that row.’

‘I suppose it doesn’t matter. Thanks, George. You’ve been a great help.’

George raised his eyebrows again. ‘I have?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Libby grinned. ‘You always are.’

Marjorie Sutcliffe stared at the uninspiring lumps of stone which were all that was left of St Cuthbert’s Church. Screwing her eyes up against the intrusive January wind, she transferred her gaze to the majestic, gnarled, multi-trunked yew that stood alongside the ruins, then to the wide stretch of tussocked grass between her and the sea.

Far to her right, she was aware of three buildings which presented their grey fronts to the world. She turned her back on them and began to trudge away from St Cuthbert’s and towards the road. The wind now teased her ears and she pulled up her coat collar. No need to keep her vigil now. Not for a while.

Libby called Fran as soon as she reached home.

‘It’s teatime,’ she said.

Fran laughed. ‘All right – go on.’

Libby told her what she’d learnt from Lewis, Frank and Bren, and George.

‘I think I know something about those protests,’ said Fran slowly. ‘But not what you said earlier.’

‘Oh? What, then?’

‘It was about destruction of the environment. When the golf club first decided to sell off the site.’

‘Oh, I bet I know! They found it was the habitat of some almost extinct beetle!’

‘Not quite, but close.’ Fran was silent for a moment. ‘Apparently, the golf course has some particularly venerable trees, oak and yew mainly, I gather.’

‘Yew? I thought they grew in churchyards. There’s the one next to the ruins of St Cuthbert’s church.’

‘They were planted in churchyards. Or near religious sites. To keep off the evil eye, at least, I think so. And apart from them, a lot of the locals were just angry about the area being dug up.’

‘That’s happening everywhere,’ said Libby, ‘and I agree it shouldn’t happen unless it’s absolutely necessary. If it was for low-cost housing, for instance—’

‘But it wasn’t,’ said Fran. ‘That blew over, anyway, although they did still get some new housing.’

‘Yes,’ said Libby darkly. ‘Luxury housing.’

‘Is it that intrusive?’

‘I don’t know, I didn’t see it.’

‘So it’s really just a lot of stick-in-the-muds disapproving of noise?’ said Fran.

‘If you like to put it like that,’ said Libby, ‘but I do see their point. It’s a very quiet, residential country area, not a major town centre ready for Saturday night frolics.’

‘No, I. . .