Murder by Christmas

Book 25: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: General Fiction; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

The twisting twenty-fifth instalment of Lesley Cookman's much-loved Libby Sarjeant series

Libby Sarjeant is deep into rehearsals for the annual pantomime when a body is found in a doorway two weeks before Christmas - and Libby and her friend Fran are called into action once again, when their investigation leads them to a local brewery and the sale of many of its pubs.

With the help of a team of local publicans, can Libby and Fran unravel the case before it's too late?

Praise for Lesley Cookman:

'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

'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

Release date: December 7, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 288

Sample

It was quiet away from the main shopping streets in Canterbury. The moon appeared briefly from behind the clouds to reveal the huddled shape in the doorway, and an intermittent breeze blew a crisp packet to catch on the tarnished tinsel tucked in beside it. Then the darkness returned.

Chloe Vaughan stepped cautiously out of her front door and squinted into the semi-darkness. Two weeks to go until Christmas and it wouldn’t be light for at least an hour, and even then, it wouldn’t be exactly bright. Not that brilliant daylight was necessarily a good thing, as far as Chloe was concerned. Her eyesight was so poor these days she needed her stick for more than just her arthritis. But despite everything, she was determined to get out for her short walk every day. No longer to buy a newspaper – she couldn’t read those – but to go to the Goods Shed to buy something nice for dinner, and perhaps have some breakfast while she was there. The people there were so kind, even if she did feel rather patronised sometimes. Small price to pay, though.

She stepped out carefully onto the narrow pavement, keeping her eyes down in case of trip hazards, and spotted one immediately. Only a pile of old clothes, though, and Chloe tutted to herself. People were so careless. Although this pile was at least festive, with a strand of tinsel fluttering slightly on top. Chloe smiled and used her stick to push the clothes aside.

Saturday morning, with only two weeks to go before Christmas, Libby Sarjeant and Ben Wilde were going to the Cattlegreen Nursery to collect a Christmas tree.

‘Could have delivered it with the others,’ Joe, the owner said, when they arrived. The tree for Ben’s family home, the Manor, and the huge one for the foyer of the Oast Theatre, which stood next door, had been delivered by Owen, Joe’s son, the week before.

‘This way we get a mug of Owen’s special hot chocolate,’ said Libby, smiling at the young man as he appeared from the back of the shop. ‘How are the family, Owen?’

He beamed. ‘Fine, thank you, Libby. And we’re all singing in the choir on Christmas Eve. Will you come and hear us?’

Libby, a determined atheist, numbered, however, several Church of England vicars among her friends, including Bethany Cole, incumbent of the church in Steeple Martin. Her choir was a great success.

‘Yes, of course – midnight service? Are the children allowed to stay up?’

‘Oh yes.’ Owen nodded earnestly. ‘I’ll go and get your chocolate.’

‘Did you see they found one of those homeless people dead in a doorway in Canterbury this morning?’ Joe asked, after his son had disappeared.

‘No!’ Libby frowned. ‘Was it on the local news?’

Joe nodded. ‘Thought you’d know, being involved with that group down in Nethergate.’

Libby could just about see the logic in that. ‘No, no one’s told us,’ she said. ‘That’s so sad.’

‘Well, you were trying to do something about it, weren’t you?’ said Joe, as Owen reappeared with two steaming mugs. ‘Can’t save everybody, Lib.’

‘I’m not sure we actually managed to save anyone, Joe.’ Libby shook her head. ‘Oh well. The fight goes on.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said to Ben on the way home, ‘I ought to see if the patrols are out in Canterbury.’

‘What patrols?’ Ben shot her a quick look.

‘You know – those patrols they send out to look for vulnerable people. Street pastors – that’s it.’

‘They were for people who’d had a tad too much to drink, weren’t they?’ Ben brought the car to a halt at the crossroads.

‘Don’t they look after people in doorways, too?’

‘I don’t know. Ask your Nethergate group.’

He drew up opposite number 17 Allhallow’s Lane.

‘I’m not sure we’ve still got a group now,’ said Libby, climbing out of the four-by-four.

A series of high-profile events in the area recently had prompted the formation of a group to fight the rise of homelessness and poverty. Fran Wolfe, Libby’s best friend, and her husband, Guy, a well-known artist, had been part of it, and had co-opted Libby, but an equally high-profile murder had put rather a dent in the proceedings.

‘It can’t hurt to ask. You’re usually only too keen to talk to Fran.’ Ben hauled the Christmas tree out of the car.

‘True,’ said Libby, and opened the front door.

After the tree had been installed in the sitting room and soup put on to heat for lunch, Libby did indeed phone Fran, who sounded flustered.

‘Libby, we are rather busy!’

‘Oh – yes. Saturday two weeks before Christmas. I should have realised.’

Fran worked in Guy’s shop and gallery a few doors along from their cottage in Harbour Street in Nethergate.

‘I’ll call later,’ Libby went on. ‘I just had something to ask you.’

‘No – ask me now,’ said Fran. ‘We’re going out with Sophie and her new man when we close here, so I won’t have any time.’

‘New man?’ Guy’s daughter Sophie and Libby’s son Adam had been an item on and off for several years. This was the first Libby had heard of a new man.

‘Ad didn’t tell you, then.’ Fran sounded amused.

‘Oh dear. I wonder how he feels about that.’ Libby pulled a face at Ben, who shook his head. ‘Anyway, it was about a homeless person who was found dead in a doorway this morning in Canterbury.’

‘Has it got anything to do with us?’ Now Fran sounded puzzled.

‘I don’t know. That’s why I was asking.’

A gusty sigh assaulted Libby’s ears. ‘Well, I don’t know. When we get a moment, I’ll ask Guy. Now I must go.’ And the connection was cut.

After lunch, the tree decorations were hauled down from the loft and the ritual began, helped by Sidney the silver tabby, who was convinced his assistance was essential. Then, after tea in front of the fire and a hastily prepared chilli, they strolled down to the Hop Pocket, the small pub Ben had recently restored and refurbished, where they were to meet Judy Dale and Cyd Russell, two members of Libby’s pantomime cast, who had today moved into their home for the next few weeks, another of the Wilde family properties, Steeple Farm. This year Libby was reprising her version of Cinderella, after a couple of years allowing other companies to mount the popular annual panto. The Steeple Martin audiences were delighted to welcome her back.

Judy and Cyd were already there, lolling wearily at a table in the window, a bottle of Tempranillo between them. Despite the pub being licensed as an ‘ale house’, it was recognised in general that drinking establishments had to provide all forms of alcohol in the 21st century. Simon, manager of the Hop Pocket, completely agreed.

‘Did it all go smoothly?’ Libby asked, pulling up a chair.

‘Brilliantly,’ said Cyd with a smile. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Libby.’

‘What for?’ Libby raised surprised eyebrows. ‘You’re playing Coughdrop in my panto and you’ve taken Steeple Farm at an exorbitant rent for five weeks.’

‘Exorbitant?’ Judy scoffed. ‘Have you seen rental costs in London?’

‘I know, I know. And they aren’t much better down here, either.’

‘Compared to round our way they are,’ said Cyd.

‘Never mind,’ said Ben, arriving with another wine glass and a pint of Ben’s Best Bitter made from his own hops at his microbrewery. ‘At least you’ve got somewhere decent to stay until the end of the run.’

‘I feel a bit guilty,’ said Judy, ‘thinking of all those poor people who were thrown out of their homes earlier on this year.’

‘You lost your home, too,’ said Libby.

‘Only because I was stupid enough to remortgage it to fund my idiotic ambitions.’ Judy gazed morosely into her glass.

‘Stop being maudlin,’ said Cyd. ‘Here we are doing panto together in this lovely place and with a lovely house to live in. What more could you want?’

‘True.’ Judy grinned at her partner. ‘A cat. That’s all I want.’

‘And a pony,’ said Cyd thoughtfully. ‘That paddock at the back is crying out for a pony.’

‘That’s what I thought when we were doing it up,’ said Libby. ‘And of course, I am going down to the marsh to have a look at a pony on Monday . . .’

‘Are you?’ asked three voices.

‘Why?’ said Ben suspiciously.

‘For a photo shoot,’ said Libby. ‘I’m sure I told you. With your coach.’

‘The pumpkin coach?’ said Judy.

‘Yes. Ben made it – well, it’s a sort of one-sided coach – for the last time we did Cinders. We’ve got friends who live in a place called Heronsbourne Flats – it’s actually a bit of salt marsh – and they know someone with a couple of ponies, so . . .’

‘Why didn’t I know anything about this?’ asked Ben. ‘That means I’ve got to clean up the coach earlier than I thought!’

‘Sorry.’ Libby looked innocent. ‘I didn’t think it would be a problem when Jane phoned me.’

‘Jane? What’s she got to do with it?’ Ben frowned.

‘Jane Baker’s the editor of one of our local newspapers,’ Libby explained. ‘Well, they aren’t papers any more really, are they? All online. Anyway, she called and asked if she could do a little feature on the panto. Of course I said yes.’

‘So who suggested the pony?’ Ben squinted at her ferociously. ‘Who do I have to blame?’

‘Alice,’ said Libby. ‘Alice is a sheep farmer on the Flats. You met her the other day with our friend Edward, Judy.’

‘Oh, yes. Nice woman. Doesn’t get out much, she said.’

‘No – with a sheep farm and young children it’s difficult,’ said Libby. ‘Sorry you’ve been a bit inundated with names, Cyd. It’ll all become clear eventually.’

‘Speaking of murder,’ said Judy, ‘we saw on your local news programme that a homeless person had been found dead in Canterbury.’

‘Oh, yes, we heard about that too. So sad, isn’t it?’ said Ben. ‘But that wasn’t murder.’

‘It said the police were investigating,’ said Cyd.

‘Well, they have to in those sorts of cases. It’ll probably be labelled unexplained,’ said Libby.

‘Not if it’s a death from hypothermia and malnutrition,’ said Ben. ‘And now, can we talk about something else?’

On Monday morning, Libby drove down to Heronsbourne Flats and along the gravel track that led to Hobson’s, the long, brick and timber building that was home to John and Sue Cantripp, who had agreed to introduce her to the prospective star of her photo shoot.

‘I take it Alice couldn’t get away,’ said Libby, as she joined Sue on her doorstep. ‘It was very nice of you to organise this, Sue.’

‘No, well, you know what things are like for poor Alice,’ said Sue, leading the way into the comfortable living room, where John sat in his big wingback armchair beside the fireplace. ‘She can’t get away too often.’

‘Nice that she’s got her young man now, though,’ said John, getting up to give Libby a kiss. ‘Friend of yours, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Libby. ‘So, how are you both?’

‘Oh, we’re fine,’ said Sue. ‘We thought we’d have our coffee after you’ve met Cascade. And Jemima’s popping over, too, as you’re here. She’s working in Pedlar’s Row.’

‘At this time of year?’ Libby asked, surprised. ‘I didn’t think landscape gardeners worked in December!’

‘Well, she is,’ said John, ‘so let’s get a move on.’

‘Did you say Cascade?’ asked Libby, as they went back outside.

Sue smiled. ‘I did. Recognise the name?’

‘Well, yes. My favourite children’s books – am I right?’

‘Monica Edwards’ Romney Marsh series, yes,’ said Sue.

‘And originally he was called Fallada, wasn’t he?’ said John.

‘No – that was what Tamzin wanted to call him,’ corrected Libby, ‘but in the end she stuck with Cascade. That’s lovely! And he lives on a marsh, too.’

‘Not quite as big as Romney Marsh, but still.’ Sue picked her way across a tussocky path.

‘I don’t suppose his owner lives in a vicarage?’ said Libby.

Sue and John laughed. ‘Not likely!’

Sue pointed. ‘There. That’s Cascade’s home.’

Ahead was a low white building, flanked on both sides by what looked like barns.

‘Please don’t tell me it’s called Castle Farm like the farm in the books?’ said Libby.

‘Stella wanted to change it,’ said John, ‘but the locals weren’t keen.’

As they approached the house, a woman bundled up in a huge padded coat appeared from one of the barns, leading a pure white, rather plump pony.

‘Hi, Stella!’ called Sue. ‘We’ve brought your visitor.’

The woman strode forward holding out her hand, beaming all over her weather-beaten face.

‘Stella Black,’ she said. ‘And this is Cascade.’

Libby shook the hand. ‘I’m thrilled to meet you both,’ she said. ‘I almost hoped you’d be called Tamzin.’

‘Ah – you’re one of us, then,’ said Stella, ‘Say hello, Cascade.’

Cascade obediently lifted a front leg.

‘Wow!’ said Libby. ‘Alice said he was trained.’

‘Much in demand is Cascade,’ said Stella. ‘Got his own agent.’

‘Oh!’ Libby looked doubtfully at John and Sue.

‘It’s all right – this is on me,’ Stella assured her. ‘Not much for him to do at the moment, so we’re happy to have some pictures taken. Where would you want to do it? Anywhere within a reasonable distance.’

Libby was smoothing Cascade’s silky neck. He turned his head and whiffled amiably into her shoulder.

‘Would our theatre in Steeple Martin be all right?’ she asked.

‘Perfect.’ Stella nodded. ‘Now, do you want to see him perform?’

‘Well, I wasn’t expecting . . .’ began Libby.

‘I’ll put him through his paces in the manège,’ said Stella, and turned to her left. Libby realised that she was no longer holding the lead rein, and Cascade walked at her side perfectly happily. John, Sue and Libby followed.

In the manège, Cascade performed as if he were in the Olympic dressage event – but without a rider. When he’d finished, he went down on one front leg and nodded his head. His audience applauded loudly.

‘Gosh, he’s impressive!’ said Libby. ‘Has he always done this?’

‘He was trained by a circus family, but they couldn’t afford to keep him, especially as he didn’t have a circus to work in. So I bought him.’ Stella nodded over her shoulder. ‘He’s got a few friends, Rajah, Charade and Punch, and Dilly the donkey, and we’ve got some little pupils we’re teaching to ride, although they don’t usually ride him.’

‘I used to ride when I was young,’ said Libby wistfully. ‘My parents had friends who had a stable, and I used to help out.’ She grinned. ‘There’s always a girl or two willing to be an unpaid stable hand, isn’t there?’

Stella looked her up and down. ‘Punch’d be up to your weight,’ she said. ‘Charade’s a bit of a lightweight, to tell the truth, but if you’d like to . . .?’

‘I’d love to!’ Libby gasped.

‘But first, you’d better sort out your photographs,’ said Sue. ‘No time for joyriding until after the panto, surely?’

‘No, maybe you’re right,’ Libby sighed. ‘We’d better organise the shoot, I suppose.’

‘Let’s get Cascade back inside, then.’ Stella gave a piercing whistle. Libby, John and Sue looked round, startled, and saw a small person in a large anorak appear from behind one of the barns.

‘This is Alanna,’ said Stella. ‘One of those willing girl helpers you were talking about, Libby.’

Alanna grinned brightly and picked up Cascade’s trailing lead rein. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, with just the faintest trace of an accent, and wheeled round, trotting back to the barn alongside the pony.

Libby raised an eyebrow at Stella, who nodded.

‘Yes, a casualty. Whole family,’ she said.

‘No – migrants?’ murmured Libby.

‘They were, yes. Whether they’ll be allowed to stay under this new legislation, God knows. But they had somewhere to live – only two bedrooms, but decent – and then they got kicked out.’ Stella led the way back to the house.

‘Rogue landlord?’ suggested Libby.

Stella smiled. ‘Of course – you were part of the protest group, weren’t you?’

‘I still am – if we can keep going,’ said Libby.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked John.

Sue tutted impatiently. ‘You know perfectly well. The landlords kicking people out of their rental properties.’

‘Oh – yes.’ John gave Libby a shamefaced smile.

‘Don’t worry, John,’ she said. ‘It’s not on everybody’s radar.’

‘Should be, though,’ said Stella, letting them into a somewhat chaotic living room. ‘Lives here now.’

‘Alanna?’ Libby was following the thread.

‘Whole family.’ Stella nodded, searching through a pile of paper on a table in the corner.

‘In your house?’

‘Small barn.’ She grinned. ‘Converted it.’ She looked up at Libby. ‘Got the idea from your mate.’

‘Hmm,’ said Libby.

‘Here,’ said Stella, brandishing a diary. ‘Have to be this week, won’t it?’

‘If you can manage it, please.’

‘Wednesday? Early afternoon? Alanna will want to come.’

‘That’s great,’ said Libby, beaming. ‘Do you know where we are?’

‘Course I do!’ scoffed Stella. ‘Lived here all me life. Showed Alice the ropes when she first came. Well, when she . . . er . . .’

‘When her husband left?’ said Libby, who knew Alice Gedding and her story well.

Stella nodded and made a note in her diary.

‘Right, then,’ she said. ‘See you on Wednesday. Oh, sorry – would you like coffee? I always forget to offer.’

‘No, we’re having it at home,’ said Sue, ‘and Jemima’s coming over. You’re welcome, too, if you like.’

Stella smiled. ‘No, thanks, busy, busy. You know.’

‘She’s great, isn’t she?’ said Libby, as they walked back to Hobson’s. ‘And Cascade’s perfect.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t meet her when you were here before,’ said Sue. ‘She does go to the pub sometimes.’

The Red Lion in Heronsbourne was another of the pubs Libby and Fran often visited in the course of their adventures, and one of those in the local pub quiz league recently set up by Tim Stevens, landlord of the Coach and Horses in Steeple Martin.

‘We’ll have to come over for a drink if we can before panto,’ said Libby. ‘Haven’t seen George for ages. And I need to see Hannah Barton and her baby – Josh, wasn’t it?’

‘Right little tearaway he’s going to be,’ said John with a grin. ‘She brings him over for a visit now and then.’

‘I must ask her about Alanna and her family,’ said Libby, thoughtfully. ‘You know she works for Philip Jacobs, the barrister who represented the protest group?’

‘He still does, doesn’t he?’ asked Sue.

‘I think so,’ said Libby. ‘It all got a bit chaotic at the end of October.’

As they approached Hobson’s, Jemima Routledge, landscape gardener, appeared, waving a white rag.

‘I come in peace,’ she called. ‘Can’t stop – I’m supposed to be in Steeple Cross by half past eleven. I’d forgotten. How are you, Libby?’

When pleasantries had been exchanged, Jemima pulled Libby aside as John and Sue went indoors.

‘Did you hear about the body found in Canterbury the other day?’ she said quietly.

‘Yes, Joe at Cattlegreen told us.’ Libby nodded.

‘Did you hear who it was?’

‘No. Nothing to do with us this time.’

Jemima frowned. ‘It was one of the Marshams.’

‘Marshams?’

‘Marsham’s – the brewery.’ Jemima put her head on one side.

‘Oh, those Marshams!’ Libby was shocked. ‘Blimey! They’re still in Felling, aren’t they?’

‘On the creek, yes. One of the oldest family-run breweries left in the country.’

‘But they’re selling off their pubs! We know someone who managed one of theirs and lost her home,’ said Libby.

‘Exactly.’ Jemima gave her a knowing look. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘You’re looking thoughtful,’ said Sue, as Libby came into the sitting room. ‘I made you tea – you prefer it, don’t you?”

‘Yes, thanks,’ said Libby absently. ‘I just heard something odd.’

‘From Jemima?’

‘Yes, although I don’t know how she knows.’ She sat down on a squashy sofa and told them what Jemima had said.

‘Works over at the Dunton estate, doesn’t she?’ said John. ‘Not far from Felling.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Libby nodded. ‘Still odd, though.’

‘Jemima knowing, or the body itself?’ asked Sue.

‘Oh, the body. Not the sort of person you expect to be homeless, a member of a brewing family. They must be millionaires.’

‘Perhaps it was the black sheep,’ suggested John.

‘Mmm. Perhaps they threw him out.’ Libby pulled a face. ‘I’d better be going.’ She swallowed the last of her tea and stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea, and for taking me to Stella. Tell me what night you want to come to the panto and I’ll keep tickets for you.’

‘Oh, aren’t you sold out already? I thought you would be!’ Sue grinned at her.

‘There are a few,’ said Libby carelessly. ‘You might have to sit on someone’s lap, of course.’

She took her leave and drove slowly off the marsh, through Pedlar’s Row and on to the main road to Ne. . .