Murder and the Glovemaker’s Son

Book 19: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths; Thrillers

Synopsis

Lesley Cookman's bestselling series featuring amateur sleuth Libby Sarjeant is back for its nineteenth instalment. The Oast Theatre in Steeple Martin is hosting an incredibly popular touring production of Shakespeare?s Twelfth Night. Very soon, the production begins to attract far less positive attention as a document goes missing along with its owner. When a body turns up, Libby Sarjeant and Fran Wolfe become involved with the investigation with the help, naturally, of their friends and relatives. Can they save the reputation of the show or is it tarred with the stain of murder?

Release date: August 16, 2018

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 239

Sample

Chapter One

‘But,’ asked Libby Sarjeant, ‘is there any real proof that Shakespeare’s company came to Steeple Martin?’

The young man on the other side of the table almost bounced in his chair, and a lank lock of mousy hair fell forward over his eyes. He pushed it away impatiently.

‘Yes, there is – I’ve actually seen it!’ He looked at the other people seated round the pub table, his light blue eyes shining. Although that was probably incipient myopia, thought Libby.

Peter Parker, sitting next to Libby, his long legs stretched out before him and his own blond hair more artistically draped across his brow, was frowning disbelievingly. ‘And there are no other records anywhere? After all, the various tours were quite well recorded – Maidstone, Hythe, Fordwich, New Romney – but I don’t recall any mention anywhere of Steeple Martin.’

His cousin Ben Wilde, Libby’s significant other, leant his elbows on the table and bent an amused glance on the young man. ‘And where, exactly, Tristan, did you see this proof?’

A faint colour came into the young man’s pale cheeks. ‘Well, I’m not actually allowed to say yet. You see, it’s being investigated by people at the V&A –’

‘Like Hamnet’s Glove,’ said Libby, apparently irrelevantly.

In the sudden silence the three men turned to look at Libby.

‘Well, that was investigated by experts at the V&A, too. Being a Shakespearean relic.’

Both Ben and the young man frowned.

‘I’ve never heard of it,’ said Ben.

‘Then your education is sadly lacking,’ said Peter with a laugh. ‘Does Hamnet not ring a bell, Ben?’

‘I know!’ The young man’s face lit up. ‘Hamnet! He was Shakespeare’s son who died when he was – what – ten?’

‘That’s him,’ said Peter.

‘And you mean to say –’ the young man was now breathless ‘– there’s a glove? Where? How do I not know about it?’

Libby laughed. ‘Don’t get excited! Hamnet’s real, but his glove isn’t. It’s part of a plot by Ngaio Marsh.’

‘Who?’ By now the young man was looking completely bewildered. Peter took pity on him and patted his hand.

‘One of the longer-lasting Golden Age detective writers. In fact that particular book was late sixties, wasn’t it, Lib?’

She nodded. ‘And one of my favourites. But I’m sorry – I interrupted.’

‘That’s all right – it’s rather interesting, especially with our own mystery.’ Tristan Scott swallowed the last of his coffee. ‘Well – that’s it, really. We would love to bring the tour here and include it in the publicity. After all, it’s a National Shakespeare production, so very prestigious. And you never know – by the time it comes here we might be able to produce the actual documentary proof.’

‘If the V&A let it out of their sight,’ said Libby.

‘Did you know,’ said Peter, after they had waved off their visitor and ordered more drinks from Tim the landlord, ‘that there was some debate about whether there actually was a glove?’

‘When?’ Libby was incredulous. ‘Don’t be daft. I’d have known.’

‘Why would you?’ Ben put down glasses on the table.

‘I just would,’ said Libby. ‘How do you know, Pete?’

‘It was in my early days at Reuters. One of the stories I was sent off to research – but nothing came of it.’

Peter had worked for the international news agency for years, until he went freelance, which gave him the freedom to indulge his passion for theatre with Libby and Ben at their Oast Theatre, and to help when necessary at the little restaurant he owned with his partner Harry, the chef patron.

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Libby. ‘Think what a scoop that would have been! Was Ngaio Marsh still alive then?’

‘You should know,’ said Ben. ‘You’re the fan.’

‘Yes, she was, thinking about it. Early eighties she died, didn’t she?’

‘I don’t know!’ said Ben and Peter together.

‘So what do we do about young Tristan’s offer?’ said Peter. ‘Do we let them come?’

‘I don’t see how we can say no to the National Shakespeare,’ said Libby. ‘And he might be right. They might be allowed to use the document, whatever it is, in the publicity – and think what a coup that would be!’

‘It’s a pity,’ said Libby some seven months later, ‘that they aren’t bringing the Dream here. That would have guaranteed an audience.’

Ben looked at her sideways and swung the car into its parking space opposite number seventeen Allhallow’s Lane.

‘It wouldn’t play as well on the booth stage,’ said Ben. ‘I’m still wondering whether it will fit on ours.’

The National Shakespeare tour, by a company to be known as The Glover’s Men - as a nod to The Chamberlain’s Men and The King’s Men - had already begun, with performances at Dover and Maidstone, from where Ben and Libby had just returned. They were performing on a traditional Elizabethan booth stage, based on illustrations from the time, on which the travelling companies would have played.

‘Oh, well, Twelfth Night’s nearly as good,’ said Libby. ‘Very funny, after all. And if they get the right Olivia...’

‘Why Olivia?’ Ben climbed out of the car. ‘Surely, Malvolio and the two knights provide the comedy?’

‘But Olivia can steal the show. There was that wonderful all-male production...’

‘But this isn’t. And surely part of the humour in that production came from the very fact that it was all-male.’

‘Not at all!’ Libby looked shocked. ‘You haven’t seen it, have you? We’ll find it on DVD.’

Ben opened the front door and Sidney the silver tabby shot out.

‘Do we have to?’ asked Ben. ‘I think I’m going to be Shakespeared out over the next few weeks.’

‘I might get it for myself then,’ said Libby. ‘I’m finding it all fascinating. I thought I knew quite a lot about Shakespeare, but I didn’t. There’s so much out there about him, the plays, his identity...’

‘Oh, yes.’ Ben waved a whisky bottle at her. ‘Whether or not they were written by him?’

Libby nodded. ‘And who was he really? There seems to be such a difference between the Stratford man and the London one. In Stratford he was mean and ill-educated, in London, generous and articulate.’

Ben handed her a whisky glass. ‘Sounds as though you’re in the anti camp.’

Libby shook her head. ‘Oh, no. Shakespeare wrote those plays. A lot of the other authors who were suggested, like Kit Marlowe and the Earl of Oxford, were dead before many of them were written.’

‘And what about artefacts?’ Ben settled into his corner of the sofa. ‘Like the letter. Have there been a lot of fakes?’

‘Oh, yes, loads over the years. I believe there’ve been several Love’s Labours Won discovered. But from what young Tristan says this letter’s been authenticated by the highest in the land. I’m just hoping that his team keep on top of all the journalists who are bound to descend on us. Poor Beth’s got to put them up in the hall again,’ said Libby.

Bethany Cole was the local vicar and technically in charge of the church hall, which had been pressed into use as an incident room for the police in the past, as well as rehearsal rooms for the now defunct ukulele club. Now it was to be the temporary headquarters of National Shakespeare’s press team, where a full press conference was set to take place in two days’ time before the opening of Twelfth Night two days after that.

‘Well, thank goodness it’s not our problem,’ said Ben. ‘We can just sit back and watch.’

By Tuesday evening, several of the cast had arrived to check into the Manor, Ben’s family home and now an occasional bed and breakfast - mainly for visiting theatricals, as Peter put it. Ben’s mother Hetty had her own ground floor quarters and was helped when necessary by a flotilla of village ladies. Libby worried about her, but Hetty assured her it kept her amused, and gave her something to talk about in the meetings of the “old biddies” as she called them, held in Carpenter’s Hall most weeks.

The management team had arrived earlier on Tuesday and set up the church hall ready for the press conference. They had booked the few rooms in the pub, although Tristan had booked Steeple Farm, the house rented out by the Wilde family as a holiday let. This, he told them importantly, was because the current owner of the Shakespearean document would be with him.

‘Although,’ said Ben, as he and Libby walked towards the pub that evening, ‘I can’t see why.’

‘Why what?’ asked Libby. ‘Why he’s staying at Steeple Farm or why he’s coming down?’

‘Either. Last time we spoke to Tristan he wasn’t any too hopeful, was he?’

‘He must have been persuaded. After all, it’s brilliant publicity for The Glover’s Men.’

‘Yes, but that’s already been done. All the advance publicity has been out for months.’

‘Along with the doubts,’ said Libby. ‘Several of the broadsheets have been fairly scathing.’

‘Ah, well, perhaps the genuine letter will put a stop to all that,’ said Ben, holding open the front door of the pub.

Tristan had been in touch with Ben and Libby personally as well as through official theatre channels since they first met, but they still knew little about both the owner of the letter, and the letter itself. Tristan’s explanation was shrouded in mystery and owed not a little to a Boys’ Own adventure story.

‘Did he say anything when you met him earlier?’ Libby asked. Ben had opened Steeple Farm House ready for Tristan and his guest in the afternoon.

‘Nothing. Really nothing – he didn’t even mention it. Except he hoped to see us here tonight.’ Ben looked round the bar. ‘But he’s not here.’

‘Where was he eating?’

‘No idea. He had all the info on places to eat, but he didn’t say a word. Perhaps he was going into Canterbury?’

Tim, the landlord, appeared behind the bar.

‘You here to meet the bigwigs?’ he asked, reaching for two pint glasses.

‘Only one of them,’ said Libby. ‘Have you seen any of them?’

‘The cast,’ said Tim. ‘They all ate here earlier. Scatty lot, if you ask me. Worse than those musicians last year.’

‘You’ve had actors here before,’ said Libby. ‘You had some during panto.’

‘But not so many,’ said Tim, leaning on the bar and handing over glasses. ‘Most of your actors were local, so only came in here for drinks. But this lot are proper classical actors, aren’t they?’

‘Certainly are,’ said Ben.

‘Worse than the panto lot, I reckon.’ Tim turned away to serve another customer and Libby and Ben went to find a seat.

It was another twenty minutes before Tristan slipped into the bar looking faintly furtive. Ben stood up.

‘Tristan! There you are. What will you have?’

‘Um – thanks.’ Tristan came over to their table and sank down in a chair. ‘Brandy, please.’

Ben’s eyebrows shot up, but he nodded and signalled to Tim. Libby eyed the newcomer curiously.

‘Tristan? Is anything wrong?’

Tristan pushed back the errant hair and cleared his throat. ‘No, no...’ He glanced sideways at Tim, who was approaching the table with a brandy balloon. ‘Nothing...’

Tim placed the glass on the table and Ben sat down again. Silence fell, Tim shrugged and went back to the bar.

‘Come on, Tristan – what’s the problem?’ asked Libby. ‘Something’s the matter. What is it?’

Tristan continued to stare into his brandy.

‘The letter,’ he said at length. ‘I had a phone call.’

‘Yes? Who from?’ prompted Ben.

‘An old bloke who worked for the V&A.’

‘And?’ said an exasperated Libby after a moment.

‘He said he was one of the experts who tried to authenticate the letter originally.’

‘Only they couldn’t? What about the experts who were trying to do it this time?’

‘They couldn’t either,’ said Tristan hopelessly.

‘Why?’ Libby frowned.

‘It’s disappeared.’

Chapter Two

‘Disappeared?’

Tristan nodded miserably.

‘How could it disappear from the V&A?’ said Ben. ‘Their security would be tighter than the Bank of England’s.’

Tristan heaved a huge sigh. ‘I’d better tell you from the beginning.’ He shifted in his chair and twirled his brandy glass between his fingers. ‘A couple of months ago I got the first phone call.’

‘This was from the old expert?’ said Libby.

Tristan nodded. ‘And he said he’d read about the letter and the Glover’s Men tour and he was rather worried.’

‘Worried?’

‘Because he said he and the other experts had come to the conclusion that it was a fake.’

‘A fake?’ Libby looked aghast.

Tristan nodded again. ‘And at that point, the original owner took it back and presumably, hid it away. And it wasn’t until his nephew inherited that anyone knew anything about it.’

‘So the nephew decided to exploit it? And sent it back to the V&A?’ said Ben.

‘Yes. And told us about it.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘And then went quiet. And then I heard from this old boy. He said he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t put the record straight, and couldn’t we back out of the arrangement quietly. I didn’t see how, but I promised to keep as quiet as I could. I don’t think he was satisfied, but I was too scared to just go and blow the whole marketing plan sky high.’

‘What happened next?’ asked Libby.

‘I told the owner. I mean the nephew of the original owner. He was furious, and demanded that I didn’t tell anyone else. I said I hadn’t.’

‘When was this?’ asked Ben.

‘About a month ago. It was awful. The tour was about to start, all the publicity was in place, the big push down here...’ He seemed to pull himself together. ‘Anyway, I talked to the V&A people, just to see if he’d been in touch, and they told me he’d withdrawn the letter.’ He shook his head. ‘They said they couldn’t possibly authenticate as they hadn’t finished their tests, but privately, one of them said to me he was very doubtful that it was genuine.’

‘So what does the owner say?’ asked Libby.

‘That’s just it. He’s disappeared too.’

Ben and Libby stared at Tristan in horrified silence. He looked up at them.

‘So will you come over to the hall with me? I’ve got to confront the team.’

Libby shook her head. ‘I don’t see what good we’ll do. If you haven’t told them anything about the news from the V&A, they aren’t going to be happy about having it sprung on them whether we’re there or not.’

‘They aren’t likely to try and cancel the production, are they?’ Ben scowled at Tristan.

‘I don’t see how they could,’ said Tristan, ‘even if they wanted to. The company are thoroughly enjoying themselves.’

‘As far as I can see,’ said Libby, ‘the only effect on us would be to lose audiences – although I can’t see why – but I suppose some people might be coming just for the, I don’t know, the sensationalist aspect.’

‘As long,’ Ben warned darkly, ‘as we don’t get accused of fraud.’

‘Fraud?’ echoed Tristan.

‘Misrepresentation,’ clarified Ben.

‘Oh no!’ Tristan put his head in his hands.

‘No point in second-guessing,’ said Libby briskly. ‘Just go and tell them and get it over with. You never know, they might decide to make capital out of it. You know – “Disappearance of document and owner – mystery surrounds Shakespeare tour.” Might work.’

Tristan looked up gloomily and nodded. With a sigh, he stood up. ‘All right, I’ll go – if you’re sure you won’t come with me.’

Ben and Libby remained seated.

‘Right.’ He swallowed the remainder of his brandy and smiled weakly.

‘Go on, then,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll be here for a little while if you’ve got time to come and tell us what happened.’

Tristan nodded again and left.

‘I wonder what they’ll do?’ said Ben, his eyes following Tristan out of the door.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they do what I said. Turn it to their advantage.’ Libby shrugged. ‘Look how unlikely some of the stories in the media are these days.’

Ben sighed. ‘Oh, well, no use worrying, I suppose. It really isn’t anything to do with us.’

‘Hmm,’ said Libby.

Tristan didn’t make another appearance, nor did any of the acting company, so Libby and Ben went back to Sidney the cat, still wondering what was about to happen.

The following morning, Ben went off to supervise his new micro-brewery, which was nearing completion, while Libby settled down to phone Fran Wolfe, her best friend, to keep her up to speed with the situation. Fran, a former actor like Libby herself, lived a few miles away in Nethergate on the coast, with her husband, artist and gallery owner Guy. Libby, having rediscovered herself as an artist, produced occasional paintings for Guy, which he sold in the gallery shop, and occasionally turned into postcards, although the market for these was falling off now. Who wanted a postcard, when you could take a photograph on your phone and send it instantly to all your friends wherever they might be in the world.

‘Well, I can’t see that it’ll harm you much,’ said Fran, having been apprised of the situation. ‘It might taint National Shakespeare and The Glover’s Men with a touch of scandal, but that could be good for business.’

‘That’s what I said last night,’ said Libby, ‘but as we haven’t heard from young Tristan since then, things are a bit up in the air. Ben went and opened up for the company this morning, and the director and technicians turned up, so we assume everything’s just going ahead.’

Libby’s mobile beeped.

‘Hang on – I’ve got another call – oh!’ Libby stared at the screen in surprise. ‘I’ll have to go, Fran. That was a text from Ben saying Ali at the shop is trying to ring me. What on earth for?’

‘How do I know?’ Fran sounded amused. ‘Go on, find out and let me know.’

Libby rang off and immediately the phone began ringing.

‘Libby, it’s Ali here.’

‘Yes, Ali – Ben told me -’

‘I’ve got a man here and I don’t know what to do with him.’

‘Eh?’

‘He wanted to know about the theatre people and where they were. I didn’t think I should send him to the theatre -’

‘No, no – don’t do that. I’ll come now. Thank you, Ali.’

Ali and Ahmed owned the eight-til-late shop in the high street, which also, to the relief of many of the older villagers, contained the post office. When Libby arrived, Ahmed was behind the shop counter, his wife was behind the post office counter, and Ali was fluttering nervously round an elderly man seated on a chair in the corner. He darted up to Libby, his face wreathed in smiles of relief.

‘Libby, this gentleman -’ he began. Libby patted his shoulder.

‘Don’t worry, Ali. I’m here now.’ She went up to the man, who stood up and smiled hesitantly. ‘Hello, I’m Libby Sarjeant, part-owner of the theatre here.’ Not strictly true, but near enough.

More relief on the face of the visitor. ‘Ah! You can help me then. I came in here to the post office to try and find a young man called Tristan Scott, who I believe is here?’

‘Yes.’ Libby turned to Ali. ‘OK, Ali, thank you, you’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you in peace, now.’

Libby led the visitor along the high street to the pub.

‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked. ‘Or coffee?’

‘Coffee would be very nice,’ said her guest. She installed him at the table in the corner and went up to a frankly inquisitive Tim.

‘New fancy man, ducks?’

‘No, and don’t be cheeky. Two coffees, please. And no, I didn’t ask if he wanted a new-fangled posh sort.’

‘Now,’ she said, sitting down at the table. ‘May I ask what this is about?’

The man looked slightly affronted. ‘It’s personal.’

‘Oh.’ Libby, no whit abashed, sat back in her chair. ‘Nothing to do with Shakespeare, then.’

Now he looked cornered. Libby smiled.

‘Would I be right in saying you’ve been in touch with Tristan recently because you were worried about something?’

He beamed. ‘Oh, you know! How did you guess it was me?’

‘Frankly,’ said Libby with a frown, ‘I don’t know! But I did and I was right. You’re worried that the letter is a fake?’

‘I’m certain of it.’

‘Well, you needn’t have worried, because it was withdrawn.’ Libby looked round the bar and leant forward. ‘And both it and the owner have vanished!’ . . .