Murder in a Different Place

Book 13: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Female Sleuths; Thrillers

Synopsis

Lesley Cookman's bestselling series featuring amateur sleuth Libby Sarjeant is back for its thirteenth instalment. Libby and the gang visit the Isle of Wight for the funeral of an old friend, whose death is (for once) entirely un-suspicious. Some elderly cousins of the deceased do however have an unexplained death in the family.  Libby?s best friend Harry seems to be somehow involved, and Libby is therefore determined to get to the bottom of the situation, and valiantly ignores the growing reluctance of the elderly cousins to help as she investigates. But will she get to the bottom of it, or will the cousins' resistance prove too much? And why are they even resisting in the first place?

Release date: May 15, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 249

Sample

Chapter One

The watcher on the cliff stood hidden against the backdrop of trees, as the sea turned into a boiling, mud-coloured devastation and the wind wrenched the tiles from the roofs and flung them into the air like playing cards. Satisfied, the watcher turned away.

‘You remember old Matthew DeLaxley?’ Peter Parker asked Libby Sarjeant.

‘Of course. He came to the opening of the theatre, didn’t he?’ Libby sat on the edge of the stage and began sorting costumes.

‘He died.’

‘Oh, no! But he was a good age, wasn’t he? Must have been in his eighties.’

‘Is any age a good age to die?’ said Peter reprovingly. ‘Anyway, Harry’s received an invitation to his funeral on the Isle of Wight. And so have we.’

‘We? As in Us?’ Libby looked up, startled.

‘Yes. Matthew’s cousins had apparently heard of us and wanted us to come.’

‘On the Isle of Wight? Goodness, that’s a bit of a trek for a funeral.’

‘Ah, but get this. They’ve offered us a place to stay. Matthew owns – owned, I should say – a holiday home in a place called Overcliffe. Actually, he lived there, too.’

‘In his holiday home?’

‘No, he had his own home. But they’ve offered us the holiday house, and, if we’d like to stay for a week, we can.’

‘How incredibly generous,’ said Libby, sliding off the stage. ‘Is there a catch?’

Peter frowned. ‘I’m not sure. Harry’s being a bit close-mouthed about it, but then, he knew Matthew better than any of us did. Did you know Matthew introduced us?’

‘I think I did,’ said Libby. ‘So when is it?’

‘Next week. Harry’s already cancelled all bookings at the caff. Oh, and apparently this holiday house has three double bedrooms, so we could ask Fran and Guy too, if you like.’

‘Goodness! But they didn’t know Matthew.’

‘They don’t have to come for the funeral,’ said Peter.

‘It seems to be taking an awful advantage,’ said Libby.

‘It’s Matthew’s, don’t forget, not the cousins’.’

‘Well, it might be now, actually,’ said Libby. ‘If he left it to them.’

‘Oh, yes – probably is.’ Peter stood up from his seat by the piano and stretched. ‘So what will we say? Yes?’

‘I’ll ask Ben – and Fran – and let you know later. Will you be coming to rehearsal?’

‘Am I needed?’ Peter was acting as the Music Hall-style chairman in the End Of The Pier Show the Oast Theatre Company were staging at The Alexandria theatre in nearby Nethergate in August.

‘Not really. I suppose I’d better organise someone to take rehearsals for a week if we’re going away.’ Libby sighed, and collected an armful of Victorian-style bathing costumes to take home and launder. ‘I hope these don’t shrink.’

Fran Wolfe, Libby’s closest friend, was delighted at the thought of a week on the Isle of Wight, although her artist husband, Guy, was dubious about closing his shop cum gallery for a week.

‘Can’t Sophie come and look after it?’ asked Libby. Sophie, Guy’s daughter, was the occasional occupant of the flat above the shop.

‘I doubt it,’ said Fran. ‘And I’m certainly not asking my lot.’

Fran’s relationship with her daughters was fragile, to say the least.

Libby called Peter before leaving for rehearsal later that day.

‘Ben says we four can go in his monster vehicle, and Fran has persuaded Guy he needs a holiday, and they’ll join us two days after the funeral. Do we know any more about the house or the details of the funeral?’

‘Hal called the cousins, but they don’t do email – or computers at all, as far as I can see – so all we’ve got is the address of the church and the name of the property. You can look it up. Ship House, Overcliffe.’

Libby looked it up. It was mentioned in a tourist guide, but there was no website, oddly for a holiday let, so there weren’t any photographs. Overcliffe, however, had more than its fair share of photographs.

‘Look,’ said Libby to Ben Wilde, her significant other, turning the screen towards him. Ben peered.

‘That’s rather nice. Is there a pub?’

‘I don’t think there’s room for a pub,’ said Libby. ‘It’s just a tiny cove, see? You can’t even drive to it, you have to walk down that steep path there, look, and leave the car in the car park at the top. The website of this seafood restaurant tells you that.’

‘Perhaps this holiday let’s at the top of the cliff,’ said Ben hopefully. ‘It looks a bit of a climb down that path.’

Peter did, in fact, wander into rehearsal at the theatre about half an hour before it finished, and opened up the little bar in the foyer.

‘What’s all this, then?’ asked Libby after she’d waved off the other members of the cast. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

Fran, who was also a member of the cast, having, like Libby, once been a professional actor, had also stayed behind, and Ben appeared after making sure all the backstage lights were off.

‘I’m a bit worried about Hal,’ said Peter, pouring drinks. ‘I told you he’s being a bit close-mouthed, didn’t I?’

‘About Matthew or the funeral?’ asked Fran.

‘I’m not sure. I think he’d rather go on his own, to be honest.’

Libby looked at Ben. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t go?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Peter. ‘The cousins have particularly asked for you.’

Libby’s forehead wrinkled. ‘But why? They don’t know me.’

‘Matthew had talked about you, I suppose,’ said Fran, ‘but you’re right, it does seem odd.’

‘So you came up here because …?’ said Libby.

‘I thought he might talk to you, if you felt you could ask him.’

‘You know he always talks to you,’ said Ben. ‘You’re his best friend, next to Peter.’

‘His one and only dear old trout,’ agreed Peter, with a grin.

‘Well,’ said Libby doubtfully, ‘I’ll try. I’ll pop in tomorrow lunchtime. It would be natural to talk about the funeral, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Peter, Ben and Fran.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Libby.

The following morning, Libby collected her basket and strolled down Allhallow’s Lane to the high street. There was nothing unusual in her visits to Bob the butcher, the eight-til-late, and Joe and Nella’s Cattlegreen Nursery shop, from where she waved across the road when she saw Harry at the table in the window of The Pink Geranium, his vegetarian restaurant. He waved back.

Two minutes later, Libby was pushing open the door. Harry stood up with a grin.

‘Why am I not surprised to see you? Coffee? Or alcohol?’

‘Coffee, please,’ said Libby with an answering grin. ‘Am I holding you up?’

Harry gestured to the empty restaurant. ‘Hardly.’ He fetched the coffee pot and two mugs. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure, as if I didn’t know?’

‘Matthew’s funeral,’ said Libby. ‘Why have I – or we – been invited? And to spend the week?’

Harry’s face closed up, albeit still with the semblance of a smile pasted on. ‘Matthew must have talked about you.’

‘I didn’t know him that well.’ Libby searched Harry’s face trying to pick something up. ‘Do you know what’s behind it?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. We get a week in a beach-front house –’

‘I didn’t know it was beach-front,’ interrupted Libby.

‘Right down at the bottom of the path, right on the beach,’ said Harry, his face opening up again. ‘Pretty good, eh?’

‘Yes, but I still don’t know why. I mean, there must be people who knew him better than we did. Not you, of course.’

‘Why me?’ Harry tried to sound nonchalant.

‘You knew him first, didn’t you? He introduced you to Pete.’

‘Oh – yes, I see what you mean.’ Harry leant back in his chair. ‘I wouldn’t read anything into it, if I were you. Just sit back and enjoy it.’

‘You can’t enjoy a funeral.’

‘Well, no, but you can enjoy a week’s beach holiday.’

‘It’ll probably rain for a week,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘You see if it doesn’t.’

*      *      *

There was another rehearsal that night, after which, as usual Libby, Fran, Ben, and Peter joined their friends Patti Pearson and Anne Douglas in the pub. Patti came over every Wednesday for dinner in The Pink Geranium with her friend Anne and a catch-up on gossip with Libby and Fran.

‘And this Matthew knew Harry in London?’ said Anne, when they finished explaining about the funeral. ‘And kept in touch?’

‘More than the rest of us did, anyway,’ said Peter.

‘How did the rest of you know him?’ asked the Reverend Patti.

‘I met him in London. He introduced me to Harry, and he knew we were all part of the Kentish Actors’ Association. He used to come down to productions and to the opening night of the Oast Theatre.’

‘Well, there,’ said Patti comfortably. ‘He probably thought of you all as his young friends and talked about you to his cousins. Only natural that they should invite you to the funeral.’

‘And a week’s holiday?’ said Libby frowning. ‘I still don’t get it.’

‘You’re making far too much of it,’ said Anne. ‘I think it’s a lovely gesture and you should make the most of it.’

Libby and Peter exchanged glances.

‘We’ll see,’ said Libby.

Chapter Two

‘It’s such a gorgeous place,’ said Libby, leaning back in her deck chair. ‘Pity we had to come here for a funeral.’

‘Pity old Matthew had to die,’ said her friend Peter reprovingly.

‘Yes, of course. What I meant was –’

‘It would have been better if we’d come here for a nicer reason,’ Ben replied for her.

‘Thanks, Ben, I would have managed that on my own.’ Libby looked over the shaded deck towards a figure standing at the edge looking out to sea. ‘What’s up with Harry?’

‘Are you being deliberately insensitive today or what?’ said Peter, standing up. ‘What do you think’s wrong with him?’

Libby looked towards Ben. ‘I am being a bit stupid, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, darling, you are.’ Ben patted her hand.

‘Sorry, Pete.’ Libby made a face. ‘I didn’t realise Matthew was a journalist at the time he introduced you two.’

‘He was a fairly influential editor by that time,’ said Peter.

‘And he came from the Isle of Wight,’ said Ben. ‘I never knew that, either. Although I didn’t know him as well as you did.’

‘I love his cousins,’ said Libby. ‘Priceless, all of them.’

‘And obviously very close,’ said Peter, casting an anxious glance at Harry, who still stood surveying the sea. ‘They’re coming down here for tea, you said?’

‘So they said yesterday.’ Libby stood up and peered up towards the house at the top of the cliff. ‘It’s a bit of a climb for them.’

‘They must be used to it. Didn’t one of them say they had a beach house down here as well?’

‘They used to.’ Libby frowned. ‘It seemed to be a subject to be avoided, though.’

Harry turned away from the sea.

‘He loved his cousins,’ he said. ‘They were brought up together, apparently, in the big house.’

‘The big house?’ repeated Peter.

‘It used to stand up there.’ Harry pointed. ‘It was called Overcliffe Castle. A folly, really.’

The other three looked at him in surprise.

‘How do you know?’ said Peter, eventually.

Harry shrugged. ‘Matthew told me. Told me all about the cousins.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me when we were organising the trip?’ Peter was frowning now.

‘Well, it wasn’t as if I actually knew the cousins, was it?’ He turned back to his contemplation of the sea.

The other three looked at each other.

‘He’s been more affected by it than we have,’ said Libby. ‘He must have known him much better than we did.’

Peter nodded. ‘He did. I think Matthew looked out for him when he was in London, and I know they kept in touch after Harry moved down to Steeple Martin with me. He was a lovely old boy.’

‘So Harry’s lost a sort of father figure?’ said Ben.

‘I think so. It’s so unlike him to be this … I can’t think of the word.’ Peter shook his head.

‘Reserved. Buttoned up. Down.’ Libby sighed. ‘All those things. And he got worse at the reception.’

‘Wake, dear, wake,’ said Peter. ‘It wasn’t a wedding.’

‘Well, it’s a shame. Poor Matthew dying, and now Harry’s upset. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come.’

Ben cocked his head on one side. ‘Now, why do you say that? You know you were as intrigued as we all were when we got the invitation.’

‘Well, that’s just it,’ said Libby uncomfortably. ‘Why on earth did these women invite us out of the blue? We hadn’t been in touch with Matthew for years. At least I hadn’t.’

‘Only Harry had, I think,’ said Peter. ‘And you couldn’t wait to find out why we were invited, admit it.’

‘I know,’ admitted Libby reluctantly, ‘but now, however beautiful the island is, and however lovely Overcliffe is, I think it might have been a mistake.’

‘Well, don’t say it in front of them,’ said Harry, suddenly appearing beside her, as a clatter of stones on the wooden steps announced the arrival of three ladies looking remarkably like characters from an Agatha Christie novel, complete with long strings of beads hanging over their long floral frocks.

‘Hoo hoo!’ said the first one. ‘Here we are at last! Come on Honoria, sit over there. Amelia, you can go next to Libby – Harry, dear boy, sit next to me.’

‘Do stop organising us, Alicia,’ said the one referred to as Honoria, in a deep, thundery rumble. ‘We’re not in the classroom now.’

‘No, dear, I know,’ said Alicia, ‘but I’m sure these good people have been wondering why we asked them to Matthew’s funeral in the first place. And I want to get on with it.’

‘We all liked Matthew,’ said Libby, unsure what she was expected to say.

‘Yes, dear, we know. He used to tell us all about the plays and pantomimes you put on in Kent, and he was terribly excited about your lovely theatre. He came to the opening, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did, although that was rather overshadowed –’

‘By a murder. Yes, we know.’ The third member of the trio, Amelia, spoke in a soft, fluttery voice that Libby was certain contained a hint of steel.

‘Um.’ Harry’s voice, unnaturally hesitant, broke in. ‘I hope I’m not going to upset anyone, but Matthew always spoke about four of you.’ He looked questioningly at the three sisters.

They all nodded.

‘Go on, dear,’ said Amelia.

‘That’s just it, you see,’ said Alicia. ‘Celia was our youngest sister. And we think she was murdered.’

There was a moment of shocked silence. Libby thought Honoria was going to burst out with something, but she changed her mind and kept quiet.

Then Alicia spoke again, ‘It’s hard to know where to begin.’ She sighed. ‘But Celia was always the one of us closest to Matthew.’

‘Why is that relevant?’ asked Libby softly, when Alicia seemed unable to go on.

‘Because we’re sure it had something to do with him,’ said Amelia, the harsh note of steel now stronger in her voice.

‘And she never would have gone to the Beach House otherwise,’ added Honoria.

Now thoroughly confused, Libby looked from one to the other of the sisters and frowned. ‘You’re not making this at all clear. Why the Beach House? And why Matthew?’

Alicia sighed again.

‘When we were children, Celia and Matthew were the youngest and closest in age. We know he used to confide in her, and she probably shared things with him she didn’t share with us.’ She glanced at her sisters. ‘Some of us were disapproving.’

Amelia snorted.

‘Anyway, his parents owned the Beach House –’ she gestured vaguely ‘– and Matthew used to go there on his own. We thought it was when he was worried about something. We know he went there if he was in trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble?’ asked Peter.

‘Boys,’ said Honoria. ‘Opened all the lobster pots. Tipped over a tray of crabs. That sort of thing.’

‘And Celia used to go with him,’ said Amelia, with a sniff. ‘He never asked us.’

‘Well, we were older, dear, weren’t we?’ said Alicia gently.

‘When he came back to the island to live,’ continued Honoria, ‘he started going down there again. He’d built that lovely place up there,’ she pointed to the cliff top, ‘near our house, but he still used to go down there, even though it was practically falling down.’

‘He said he ought to do it up, it would be perfect for holiday makers.’ Alicia shook her head. ‘But of course, it wouldn’t.’

‘Why was that?’ asked Ben.

‘Because that’s where Celia was killed,’ said Alicia.

‘Drowned,’ said Amelia.

‘In the storm,’ finished Honoria.

‘How awful!’ Libby was aghast.

‘And she wouldn’t have gone there if it wasn’t for Matthew,’ said Amelia.

‘Did she tell you she was going?’ Peter looked intently at Amelia, who looked away.

‘No,’ said Honoria. ‘We were all too busy looking after Matthew. He’d collapsed, you see.’

‘I’d better tell you about that day,’ said Alicia. ‘It’s beginning to sound muddled even to me. It was a horribly windy day and there was a storm warning. Matthew had seemed very frail over the last few weeks, and when the wind began to get quite violent, I decided to go over to see that he was all right.’

‘Told us not to come,’ said Honoria.

‘You were out in the garden anyway, and Celia … well, Celia had gone out.’ Alicia shook her head. ‘But when I got there, I found Matthew collapsed on the floor by the French windows.’ She paused, no doubt seeing the scene all over again. ‘So I dialled 999 and called the girls over on my mobile phone. Lucky I had one, really, because I had to stay on the line with the operator until the paramedics got here. Well, you know how difficult this place is to get to.’

‘Thank goodness Matthew’s house is at the top of the cove near the road,’ said Ben.

‘Yes, and it was a good job we called then rather than later, because once the storm really hit the Island the poor emergency services were overwhelmed.’

‘So, was it a heart attack?’ asked Peter.

‘Yes – the first. Second one killed him,’ said Amelia.

‘I went with him in the ambulance,’ said Alicia, ‘and then the girls realised that Celia still hadn’t come back.’

‘We knew she had popped out for something,,’ said Honoria, ‘but the car was still there.’

‘Only one between us.’ Amelia shook her head. ‘Stupid idea.’

‘So we tried her mobile phone, we all have one of those,’ continued Honoria with a grim look at Amelia, ‘but she didn’t answer. Couldn’t have gone for a walk, not in that weather, and we didn’t know what to do. Police won’t look for someone who’s only been missing for half an hour.’

‘And then the storm broke. We battened down the hatches and watched.’ Amelia’s voice lost its hard edge. ‘And we watched our lovely cove battered and flooded.’

‘Including the Beach House?’ asked Libby softly.

The three sisters nodded with tears in their eyes.

‘Tea,’ said Harry suddenly, and Libby jumped. It was the first they’d heard from Harry since the story began.

‘God, yes! You came for tea! I’ll put the kettle on. Boys, will you carry out the cakes?’

Alicia gave a trembly laugh. ‘You call them boys, the same as we call each other the girls.’

Libby smiled and patted her on the shoulder. ‘Well, they never grow up, do they?’

When tea had been provided and cake shared, the sisters had recovered their equilibrium.

‘Can you tell us what happened after the storm?’ said Libby.

Alicia put down her cup. ‘Of course, the telephone lines were down, the mobile signals were lost and I was stuck in the hospital at Newport. They wanted to transfer Matthew to the mainland, but the weather was too bad. The ferries were all cancelled and the helicopter couldn’t fly.’

‘And we were stuck in the house,’ said Honoria. ‘It was one of the worst times of our lives. We tried to eat although we couldn’t, the power went off, and we couldn’t sleep.’

‘Especially with all the noise going on,’ said Amelia.

‘As the night went on the storm began to die down, and we both slept a little in our armchairs,’ said Honoria. ‘And when we woke up it was because my mobile phone was ringing.’

‘And that was me,’ said Alicia. ‘Matthew was hooked up to just about everything, but I couldn’t get home because someone at the hospital told me our road was blocked. So I was just letting the girls know. And then they told me Celia was missing.’

‘So then we reported it,’ said Honoria. ‘And later that day, when the clear-up of the cove started, they found her.’

They fell silent again.

‘And she’d been drowned when the cottage flooded?’ asked Peter.

‘Because she’d been knocked unconscious and left there,’ said Amelia. ‘She’d have got out if she’d been conscious.’

‘Was that proved?’ asked Libby.

‘Oh, yes.’ Amelia was scathing. ‘However incompetent our Island police are, they did at least prove that.’

‘Amelia, they are not incompetent.’ Alicia’s voice was sharp. ‘They did everything they could.’

‘When did you tell Matthew about Celia?’ asked Harry suddenly. They all looked at him.

‘Ah – you’re thinking that was what killed him?’ Alicia smiled at him. ‘Yes, in a way, I suppose it did, although not immediately. We couldn’t tell him until he was well enough, and there was all the business of the post-mortem so he didn’t miss the funeral – or at least, he wouldn’t have if he’d been well enough to attend – but he just seemed to be sunk in a sort of depression. He hardly spoke, he wouldn’t eat, nothing.’ She shook her head.

‘So we brought him home,’ said Honoria, ‘and put him in Celia’s room. We looked after him as much as we could, but the nurses came in, too. And then, two weeks ago, he had the second attack. He had written some letters, though. He asked the nurse to post them.’ She looked enquiringly at Harry, who shook his head.

‘How terribly sad for you all,’ said Libby after a moment.

‘I’m so. . .