Murder at the Crooked Horse

Book 27: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: General Fiction; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

After learning of a suspicious attempt to burn down a beloved old pub, The Crooked Horse, amateur detective Libby Sarjeant and her friend Fran reluctantly agree to investigate.

But when a local antiques dealer mysteriously disappears after apparently taking out his boat, it appears there are dark and sinister forces at play.

Can Libby and Fran uncover a connection between the fire and the missing man? And will unravelling a deadly case put them in terrible danger?

Release date: November 7, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

The boat rocked gently against the small jetty, moonlight sporadically highlighting its empty interior. Eventually the cut rope pulled away from the stanchion and the boat, freed from its mooring, began to drift away on the rippled grey satin of the sea.

‘Did you hear about the old Crooked Horse?’ said Lewis Osbourne-Walker, handing Libby Sarjeant a large mug of tea.

‘The what?’ Libby, seated at the large kitchen table with Lewis’s mother, Edie, looked startled.

‘It’s a pub, dear,’ said Edie. ‘Over on the marshes.’

Libby’s brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t remember a pub on the Flats.’

‘Not Heronsbourne Flats,’ said Lewis. ‘The marshes over towards Felling.’

‘Oh. No, then. Why would I have heard anything about a pub all the way over there?’

‘Because it’s made the news, lovey.’ Edie offered a plate of biscuits. ‘On the telly.’

‘No – I must have missed it. What’s happened to it?’ Libby ignored the biscuits.

‘It burned down,’ said Lewis.

‘Oh no! How sad. Anyone hurt?’

‘No.’ Lewis frowned and sat down. ‘All a bit odd, actually. It burned down – or nearly – at the weekend, and then yesterday a digger turned up to demolish what was left.’

‘Oh dear.’ Libby gave a rueful smile. ‘Insurance job, was it?’

‘Dunno. The police stopped the digger – something to do with permissions. They’re looking into it.’

‘We wondered, see,’ said Edie, ‘if it was to do with all that other stuff about the pubs.’

‘Oh?’ Libby frowned. ‘Why?’

Edie shrugged. ‘Just because it’s a pub, I s’pose.’

‘And it was over near Marsham’s. It was sold, see,’ said Lewis. ‘It didn’t say on the news, but we wondered if it was one of the ones that got sold off last year.’

A local brewery, Marsham’s, had sold off several pubs and got themselves into a good deal of trouble in the process over the past year. Libby and her friend Fran had helped look into the circumstances.

‘Could be, I suppose,’ she said, ‘but if it was sold to become a private dwelling, why burn it down?’

‘Development,’ said Lewis darkly.

‘Where, though? There isn’t anything over that way. Near the Dunton estate, is it?’

‘Well, yes, sort of,’ said Lewis, not very helpfully. ‘Well, part of that’s been bought up, and they want to turn it into houses. And the pub’s just up the road. Right by the nature reserve.’

‘Who wants to? The new owners?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Lewis. ‘Someone does, anyway.’

‘Well, it’s nothing to do with me, and I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment,’ said Libby, leaning back with a sigh. ‘I’m rehearsing this play at the theatre.’

‘What play?’ asked Lewis.

‘Oh, it’s lovely. It was written by some friends of mine years ago, and has never been performed since, so I’m going to revive it. It’s great, and really local.’

‘Steeple Martin local?’ asked Lewis.

‘No – Kent local. It’s called Contraband.’

‘Oh, smugglers!’ Lewis beamed. ‘That’ll go down well.’

‘Yes, it will. And it’s a musical, even better!’ Libby grinned back at him.

‘What I meant was, the Crooked Horse was a smugglers’ pub.’ He raised both eyebrows and waited for her to speak.

‘So?’ Libby frowned.

‘You could be researching smugglers while you look into it!’ Lewis leant forward eagerly. ‘Perfect!’

‘Oi!’ Libby banged her fist on the table. ‘I’m not looking into anything! I said I’m far too busy. Anyway, the police will be doing it. And the insurance company, I expect.’

‘Oh, Lib! Come on. For the locals.’ Lewis looked down at his hands and shook his head. ‘I sort of said . . .’

‘I told ’im,’ said Edie. ‘I said you wouldn’t want to. Not after that last lot.’

‘What?’ Libby looked from one to the other. ‘What have you done, Lewis?’

Lewis looked defensive. ‘It wasn’t my idea! It was George.’

Libby narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Which George?’

‘How many do you know?’ he asked.

‘Don’t try and muddy the waters.’

‘George at the Red Lion,’ muttered Lewis.

‘And it was his idea to ask me, was it?’

Lewis sighed. ‘We was talking about it, see. And George said you ought to look into it, seeing as you’d helped with the whole Marsham’s Brewery thing.’

‘And the silly fool said he’d ask you,’ said Edie, with a positively witch-like cackle.

‘Oh, bloody hell.’ Libby let out her breath in a whoosh.

‘What?’ Lewis said after a moment.

‘I can see what he meant,’ said Libby. She sat staring at her now empty mug for a long time.

Eventually Edie stood up. ‘Shall I go, duck? I’ll wait for you in my sitting room.’

‘No, it’s all right, Edie.’ Libby sat up straight in her chair. ‘I’m just being feeble. I can quite see why George said what he did, it’s just that people seem to treat me and Fran like proper private detectives, and we really aren’t.’

‘You might as well be,’ said Lewis. ‘And I looked it up. You don’t even have to take exams, you know.’

‘I know, but the police prefer it if you do.’ Libby smiled wistfully. ‘Ian said he’d love to see my answers to the questions.’

‘Ian is a rare thing among policemen,’ said Lewis. ‘Never known one like him.’

‘As I’d never known one before, I can’t say the same,’ said Libby, ‘but he’s a very good friend. I wonder if he’s in charge of this investigation.’

‘It isn’t a murder, so probably not,’ said Lewis.

‘He doesn’t only do murders,’ said Libby, ‘although now he’s part of this MIT, or whatever it is, I suppose he does mainly.’

‘What’s that, duck?’ asked Edie. ‘MIT?’

‘Major investigation team,’ said Libby. ‘DCI Ian Connell is one of the top bods in this area now. I think he’s only got a superintendent above him.’

‘Anyway,’ said Lewis, ‘he might be in charge of this fire thing, as it’s raised such a stink locally.’

‘And why exactly is that?’ asked Libby. ‘You just said it was an old smugglers’ pub.’

‘Well, see, it was on a route from where stuff used to be landed,’ Lewis began, settling himself more comfortably now that danger was past. ‘Called the Pack Horse then, it was, so the iggerant masses knew it was a safe house by the picture.’

‘Oh, yes – they had the pub signs for people who couldn’t read, didn’t they?’ said Libby.

‘That’s it. But then there was the coal mine.’

‘Eh?’ Libby and Edie both looked startled.

‘You know about them, Lib,’ said Lewis. ‘I remember you learnt about the miners when you first heard about their reunion service at St Aldeberge Church.’

‘Oh, yes, Betteshanger and Chislet and all of them.’ Libby nodded.

‘Well apparently, so George and some of the others was saying, they tried a few others, which didn’t work.’

‘Oh yes, I remember – Woodnesborough was one, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah – so they drilled right near that old estate, and the pub slipped.’

‘Oh!’ Libby clapped her hands. ‘So it became the Crooked Horse! Lots of places suffered like that when they dug the coal mines in the north, didn’t they?’

‘I dunno about that,’ said Lewis, ‘but that’s what happened, apparently. And the council was supposed to protect it or something.’

‘Wasn’t it listed?’ Libby frowned. ‘Must have been. I bet it was at least a couple of hundred years old.’

Lewis and his mother exchanged smiles. ‘So you will look into it then?’ said Lewis innocently.

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Libby, standing up. ‘Now come on, Edie. I came over to take you to see your mate at Temptation House, not sit here gossiping.’

Creekmarsh Place, the venerable estate owned by Lewis, bordered the sea on one side and the Heronsbourne Road on the other. Libby drove Edie through Heronsbourne itself to Nethergate and on out the other side, where Temptation House stood alone on a cliff overlooking Nethergate Bay. Last winter, Edie’s friend Chloe Vaughan had moved into the house to join Miss Dorothy Barton’s group of what she called ‘indigent ladies’. She loved her bed-sitting room with kitchenette and shower room, and rather revelled in her status as widow of a notorious London crook. Not, she and Edie both assured Libby, that Mickey Vaughan had been particularly notorious; he just ‘got in with a bad crowd’, as Chloe put it.

‘What are you going to do about this pub, then, duck?’ Edie asked as Libby pulled up outside.

‘Find out a bit more about it first,’ said Libby. ‘We’re all going over to the reopening of the Fox and Hounds at Shittenden tonight – I told you, didn’t I? – so I’ll ask a couple of questions while I’m there.’

‘That was one o’ them pubs they sold, wasn’t it?’

‘Not quite. They threw poor Stan, the landlord, out but never got round to selling it, so they let him have it back when the whole bad business came out. So now he’s reopening. And he might know if the Crooked Horse was a Marsham’s pub.’

At six o’clock, the minibus pulled up at the foot of the Manor drive in Steeple Martin high street and collected Libby, her partner Ben Wilde and their friends Fran and Guy Wolfe from Nethergate; Peter, Ben’s cousin, and his partner Harry; Ricky (and Barney the dog) and his grandmother, Linda Davies. They stopped at the corner of New Barton Lane to collect Anne Douglas and her wheelchair.

‘It’s a proper Libby’s Loonies outing,’ said Harry, chef patron of Steeple Martin’s vegetarian Mexican restaurant, the Pink Geranium, leaning over between Ben and Libby. ‘Are we going to play hunt the murderer?’

‘As no one’s been murdered recently, no,’ said Libby.

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Harry sat back and nudged Peter. ‘We can relax.’

It was nearly a quarter past seven by the time the minibus arrived outside the Fox and Hounds, due to the usual heavy rush-hour traffic in Canterbury.

‘Looks pretty, doesn’t it?’ said Fran as they climbed out.

‘Stan’s already got his lovely hanging baskets out,’ said Libby, smiling happily. ‘I’m so pleased he got the pub back.’

‘Thanks to you,’ said Ricky, coming up behind them.

‘The brewery saw sense,’ said Libby. ‘And your mum helped.’

‘Least she could do,’ said Ricky with a sigh, and went to help with Anne’s wheelchair.

Libby and Fran looked at one another.

‘Oh dear,’ said Fran.

The Steeple Martin contingent were welcomed into the pub – which looked a lot brighter than the last time Libby had seen it – by Stan Hadley and his daughter Trisha. Ricky’s mother, Debbie Pointer, was sitting looking rather self-conscious on a stool at the bar. Ricky and Linda both went forward to give her a kiss. Libby noticed the slightly disparaging glance that Trisha sent after them.

‘Well, Trisha’s not happy with the situation, that’s for sure,’ Fran murmured in Libby’s ear.

‘A bit dog-in-the-manger of her,’ said Libby, as they both smiled and nodded to acquaintances. ‘After all, Debbie did help Stan restore the pub to its former glory.’

‘Hmm,’ said Fran. ‘And usurped Trisha’s position, perhaps?’

‘Look, we aren’t here to carp about the situation,’ said Libby. ‘We’re here to celebrate with Stan – he looks really happy, doesn’t he?’

Stan did indeed look happy. A small man, with grey hair and a cheerful, wrinkled face, he was positively bursting with excitement.

‘I’m so pleased to see you two,’ he said confidentially, handing the women glasses of champagne. ‘It’s all down to you, this.’ He waved a hand around the bar.

‘And Debbie, surely,’ said Libby with a smile.

‘She wouldn’t have done it without you,’ said Stan firmly. ‘And that’s another thing I’ve got to thank you for.’ He looked quickly at Debbie and her family, a slight frown on his face.

‘Nothing to do with us,’ said Fran.

‘Have all the clubs come back?’ asked Libby, hastily changing the subject. ‘The Vintage Drinkers?’

‘Oh yes.’ Stan beamed. ‘And old Joe Wilson has brought all his old codgers, as he calls them, back here. And the ladies – even the book club. They didn’t much like the Hop House Centre.’

‘No, it was a bit soulless, wasn’t it?’ said Libby, remembering the converted oast houses in Shittenden.

‘Yeah – anyway, I got to go and talk to that TV chap now, but I wanted to ask you something. Catch you later?’ He looked hopefully from Libby to Fran.

‘I wanted to ask you something too,’ said Libby. ‘See you later.’

Stan beamed and blew a kiss before turning and plunging once more into the crowd of appreciative drinkers.

‘Lib – can you spare a moment?’

Ben appeared at Libby’s elbow with a large man in a rather shabby three-piece suit, who held out his hand.

‘Hello! I’m Wallace Mayberry.’

‘Oh, hello.’ Libby took the outstretched hand with a tentative smile. ‘I’m Libby Sarjeant.’

‘I’m Beer and Bargains!’ continued Wallace Mayberry.

Fran and Libby exchanged puzzled glances.

‘Wallace wants some advice.’ Ben looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Advice?’ Libby frowned.

‘Er – yes.’ Wallace straightened up and wiped a perspiring brow.

Ben sighed. ‘It’s about a friend of his.’ He looked at Wallace, obviously waiting for him to speak. He didn’t.

‘What about him?’ asked Libby, aware of a sinking feeling somewhere under her ribcage.

‘Well,’ Wallace said. ‘He’s disappeared.’

‘Ah,’ said Libby.

There was a rather awkward silence, which Ben eventually broke.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘Wallace sometimes buys his – er – antiques from someone who has a barn out at Shittenden, and now the Fox and Hounds has opened again, he pops in here for a drink.’ He looked at her hopefully, as if this explained everything.

‘And?’ she said.

‘Well, he got talking to Stan, you see.’ Ben turned to Wallace. ‘Go on, you tell her.’

Wallace heaved a sigh and settled back against the table, which creaked alarmingly.

‘It was like this. My mate’s got this barn, you see. And he’s got a boat.’ He scratched his head, getting redder in the face than ever. ‘And his missus gives me a ring, see. And she says he went out on the boat last week and he hasn’t come back.’

‘Hasn’t she told the police?’ asked Fran.

‘No.’ The red was turning, alarmingly, to puce. ‘She – er – didn’t like to.’

Dodgy dealing, Libby thought to herself. ‘So what advice can I give you?’

‘It was Stan, see,’ said Wallace, giving her a pleading look like a starving bulldog. ‘He says it’s mostly down to you he got the old Fox back, and you’re like a sort of private eye. So we – that’s Fay and me – we thought we’d ask you what you thought.’

‘I’m not a private eye, Wallace,’ said Libby. ‘I sometimes help with inquiries. My friend and I are’ – she flicked a quick look at Fran – ‘civil consultants. And really, I think you should report this to the police. Have the coastguard been informed? I assume it was at sea, not on a river?’

‘Yeah.’ Wallace looked at his feet. ‘Channel.’

Of course, thought Libby. The illegal trade in ‘antiques’ from the Continent had increased in the last couple of years, since the gentrification of the area and the growth in the holiday-rental and second-home markets.

‘Is Fay his wife?’ she asked, more gently now.

He looked up. ‘Yeah. We’re sort of – mates.’

‘Well, I really think you should tell the authorities. I honestly don’t see what we can do.’ Fran smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

Wallace sighed and shrugged. ‘Oh well, it was worth a try,’ he said and gave Ben a lopsided grin. ‘Thanks, mate.’

He wandered off and Harry took his place, indicating an empty table by the door.

‘Pete’s getting drinks,’ he said. ‘So what did old Wally want?’

‘He said he was Beer and Bargains,’ said Fran.

Harry laughed. ‘He’s one of your customers, isn’t he, Ben? It’s an antique shop in Nethergate.’

‘Antiques? With beer?’ Libby looked puzzled.

‘It’s more – what do they call it? – collectibles, that’s it. And Wally’s turned it into a micropub. You can buy practically everything that isn’t nailed down, and he’s doing much better now, with Ben’s beer.’

Ben had become quite the entrepreneur over the last few years, reviving his family’s hop garden, starting up a microbrewery and restoring a small village pub, the Hop Pocket.

Peter appeared with a tray of glasses and Guy carrying a bottle of champagne.

‘Well, it might run out,’ he said, topping up Libby and Fran’s glasses. ‘I thought I’d make sure we had enough.’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Ben.

‘So what was that all about?’ Harry asked.

‘Your Beer and Bargains man just asked us for advice,’ said Libby. ‘Cheers.’

‘Wally?’ Harry’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What’s he done?’

‘Nothing. A friend of his has gone missing, that’s all.’

‘In the trade?’ Harry was frowning now.

‘Owns an antiques barn, apparently, near here.’

‘Ah.’ Peter nodded. ‘Malcolm Hodges. You certainly don’t want to get mixed up with him.’

‘I don’t?’ Libby looked surprised.

‘Definitely dodgy,’ said Harry firmly.

‘How do you know?’ Libby squinted at him suspiciously.

‘Word gets around,’ said Harry evasively.

‘But you’re nothing to do with antiques.’

‘But I’ve got a business, dear heart. And like it or not, there is a business community in the area – mainly on social media these days, of course. Mind you,’ Harry looked thoughtful, ‘I’ve heard nothing about Hodges going missing.’

‘Apparently Fay didn’t want to go to the police and Wallace talked to Stan.’ Ben shrugged. ‘Fatal.’

‘Stan recommended you, did he?’ Harry chuckled. ‘And who’s Fay?’

‘Hodges’ wife. And a “mate” of Wallace. Oh – and he went missing on his boat in the Channel, which definitely sounds dodgy to me.’

‘Smuggling stuff over from the Continong?’ said Harry. ‘So she hasn’t asked the coastguard, either?’

‘No. We told him he should go to the police,’ said Fran.

‘Good girl.’ Guy patted her on the shoulder. ‘You’re learning.’

‘Don’t patronise,’ said Fran.

Libby and Fran were sitting outside the pub with Ricky and Barney when Stan and a woman Libby would describe as ‘well preserved’ approached them.

‘Nice speech, Stan,’ said Libby.

Stan went pink. ‘Never was much good at speeches. ’Specially having to do it to bloody TV cameras. Dread to think what’ll happen if Trish gets married.’ He cleared his throat. ‘This is Fay. I think Wally Mayberry mentioned her to you.’

‘Oh yes.’ Libby nodded. ‘Ben introduced us earlier.’

‘He said.’ Fay looked rather ill at ease. ‘He’s just – er – had to pop out for a bit.’

She had the voice of a lifelong smoker, thought Libby.

‘I’d better get back,’ said Stan. ‘I’ll see you later, all right, Libby?’

Libby nodded and smiled. ‘Well, sit down, Fay.’

Fay’s form-fitting orange and purple dress creaked a bit at the seams as she perched on the bench next to Ricky, who promptly stood up.

‘I’d better leave you alone,’ he said. ‘Come on, Barney.’

Barney gave Libby a last lick and followed his master, his tail whirring like a helicopter.

‘What can we do for you, Fay?’ asked Fran. ‘I’m Fran Wolfe, Libby’s colleague.’

How confidently she said that, thought Libby. I’d still be struggling with how to introduce us.

Fay darted a narrow-eyed stare between them. ‘Wally told you. My hubby’s disappeared.’

Libby suppressed a wince. ‘Yes, he did. He said he went out on his boat and didn’t come back. This would be the week before last, now, wouldn’t it?’

‘Have you told the police and the coastguard?’ asked Fran.

‘No.’ Fay looked away. ‘Didn’t want to make a fuss.’

Libby and Fran exchanged glances.

‘Then I really don’t see what we can do,’ said Libby gently. ‘We haven’t got the resources the police have.’

‘You work with them, though. Stan said.’ Fay sent a penetrating glare in Libby’s direction. ‘You can find out.’

‘How?’ asked Fran reasonably. ‘Ask them if they’ve heard of a man out on a boat who’s missing from home? I think they might want to know why.’

Fay frowned down at her green-painted nails. ‘What do I do, then?’

‘Tell the police,’ said Libby firmly.

‘What’s the name of his boat?’ asked Fran suddenly.

Fay glanced up, hopeful. ‘The Jan Bishop, named after his mum.’

‘We’ll ask around,’ said Fran. Libby looked surprised.

‘You still ought to tell the police,’ she said.

Fay creaked to her feet. ‘You let me know if you – er – hear anything.’ She nodded at Fran. ‘Thank you.’

Libby waited until Fay was out of earshot.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘What was all that about? Are we going looking for a boat now?’

‘I just thought we could ask George and Bert if they know it.’ Fran stood up. ‘Nethergate was always a smuggling port, wasn’t it? I bet it still goes on – only probably not wool any more.’

‘No,’ agreed Libby, thinking of Skinner’s Alley and Slaughterman’s Cottage. ‘Are we going back inside?’

‘I thought we ought to help Stan with that champagne,’ said Fran, with an innocent look. ‘Don’t want it to go to waste.’

Peter met them as they re-entered.

‘Wondered where you’d gone,’ he said, eyeing them suspiciously. ‘Ben’s friend Wally was asking for you.’

‘Well, as we were talking to his so-called “mate”, I’m surprised he needed to ask,’ said Libby. ‘And we need more champagne.’

Libby managed to corner Stan a little while later on her way back from the smart new ladies’ room.

‘Very nice,’ she said, indicating the rather twee ‘Vixens’ sign.

‘Debbie’s idea,’ said Stan with a sigh. ‘You said you wanted to speak to me, didn’t you? Sorry, I got Fay in first!’

‘That’s OK,’ said Libby. ‘I just wanted to know if you’d heard anything about the Crooked Horse?’

She didn’t need to explain.

‘Oh, bloody hell, yes!’ Stan scowled. ‘Terrible business.’

‘Was it a Marsham’s pub?’

‘Ah – that’. . .