Murder in Bloom

Book 5: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Female Sleuths; Thrillers

Synopsis

Floundering in the footsteps of a deliberately downplayed police enquiry, Libby manages to stir up more mud than the rotavator. When television personality Lewis Osbourne-Walker buys Creekmarsh Place, near Steeple Martin in Kent, Libby Sarjeant's son Adam is employed to help with the renovation of the garden. What he doesn't expect is to uncover a long buried skeleton. Libby, naturally, wants to know more about it, but the police aren't going to tell her, and with her friend Fran's mind on other things, she has to go it alone, with interesting and possibly catastrophic results.

Release date: May 1, 2012

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 272

Sample

Chapter One

‘HEY, MA, GUESS WHAT?’ Adam’s voice was jubilant.

‘Hello, darling,’ said Libby Sarjeant. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I found a body!’

Libby’s stomach seemed to roll over and her legs felt suddenly icy. She sat down abruptly.

‘A body?’ she said.

‘I knew you’d be interested,’ said Adam. ‘I told Mog you would be.’

‘Mog?’

‘The bloke I’m working with. I told you. Don’t you remember?’

Libby racked her brain. ‘Vaguely,’ she admitted. ‘What body?’

‘A skeleton,’ said Adam, his excitement clearly audible. ‘Or part of one, anyway. A skull and a few bones, although I think they’ve found a bit more now.’

‘They? The police?’

‘Yeah. They’ve been here all day.’

‘So where are you?’

Adam sighed in obvious exasperation. ‘Oh, Ma, don’t you ever listen? Creekmarsh Place.’

‘Oh, yes!’ Libby got up from the stair she was sitting on and carried the phone into the sitting room, where she turfed Sidney the silver tabby off the cane sofa. ‘Gardening for some famous person.’

‘Not gardening exactly, more redesigning,’ corrected Adam. ‘Mog’s a designer.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘This is his first big commission, and I’m helping him.’ Adam sounded proud.

‘But you’re not a gardener,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve never even persuaded you to mow the lawn.’

‘Thanks, Ma. I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Sorry, darling, of course I am, but you’ve just graduated with a sociology degree.’

‘Not just, Ma. Last bloody year, and I still haven’t got a job. I told you, Mog asked if I’d like to give him a hand with this, as it’s big and there’s a whole load of clearing to be done.’

‘And Mog is …?’

‘That mate of Dom’s who used to be an accountant. Lives in Canterbury.’

‘Oh, right, I remember.’ Libby felt she was shaking off the onset of senile dementia. ‘He married that nice girl Fiona, didn’t he?’

‘Now you’ve got it,’ said Adam. ‘And he went back to college to learn how to be a garden designer and now that’s what he does. When he can.’

‘When he can?’

‘There isn’t so much work around now, despite the fact that people still love the gardening programmes on TV.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Libby. ‘More people are digging up the flowers and planting vegetables, aren’t they?’

‘Exactly,’ said Adam. ‘But this job is fantastic and could put Mog on the map.’

‘Creekmarsh Place? Where is it?’

‘Aha! Bit of a secret destination,’ said Adam. ‘Never heard of Creekmarsh?’

‘No,’ said Libby.

‘It’s just along the coast from Nethergate before the marshes begin.’

‘Where the Wytch comes out?’

‘That’s it. It’s actually on the banks of the Wytch. Tiny place, just a few houses, a pub and the Place.’

‘Stately home?’

‘Sort of. Half of it’s derelict, or almost. It’s Tudor – fantastic place.’

‘And who’s the famous person?’

‘Lewis Osbourne-Walker.’

Libby sat up straight. ‘You’re not serious?’

Adam chuckled with glee. ‘Absolutely. Fantastic, eh?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Libby, ‘but you’re not a fan of his, surely?’

‘’Course not, but the rest of the world is.’

‘But he does gardening programmes.’

‘He does home programmes,’ corrected Adam, ‘with gardens thrown in.’

‘So why isn’t he using one of his TV garden personalities to design his garden?’

‘Because they’re too famous to do that any more, and he wanted someone who could carry on looking after the garden. He met Mog at some band’s gig and asked him to show him some drawings.’

‘Wow.’ Libby stared thoughtfully into the fireplace. ‘So what’s he like? I’ve always thought he might be – er –’

‘Gay?’ suggested Adam. ‘Yes, he is, as a nine bob note, but what’s that got to do with anything? Two of your best friends are gay.’

‘I know that, but Lewis is the housewife’s favourite, isn’t he? Wasn’t he voted some magazine’s sexiest man?’

‘So what? Come on, Ma. That’s a bit of an old-fashioned attitude, isn’t it?’

‘It was a bit of an old-fashioned magazine, as I remember,’ said Libby.

‘Whatever. He’s a great bloke. I get on really well with him.’

‘Oh?’

‘Oh, Mum,’ said Adam, making two syllables of her name and reminding her how young he still was.

‘Well, I’m really pleased,’ said Libby, ‘but what about this body?’

‘There’s this part of the estate that was really overgrown, bordering on the main lawn, which we’ve already been working on, and Lewis wants to turn it into a wildlife area, but with paths so people can walk through it.’

‘Is he going to open it to the public, then?’

‘He’s thinking about turning it into a venue,’ said Adam, sounding as though he knew what he was talking about.

‘Like Anderson Place?’

‘Where? Oh, yes, where Harry and Peter got married.’

‘Civil partnered, dear,’ said Libby. ‘Harry always corrects me.’

‘Whatever,’ said Adam, ‘but yes, sort of like that.’

‘OK, but what about the body?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, I was using the mini digger to clear some of the undergrowth and Mog suddenly shouted at me. And there it was.’

‘The skull?’

‘And an arm bone. Turned me up a bit, I can tell you.’

‘I bet,’ said Libby. ‘So what happened next?’

‘Mog called Lewis, who’s in London – well, he was, but he’s come back now – and then the police. They’re finding out how old it is now.’

‘Is it very old, then?’ asked Libby.

‘They think so. Well, not recent, anyway. There’s been a news blackout for the moment, so don’t go telling your friends Jane and what’s-’is-name, McLean.’

‘McLean’s hardly a friend,’ said Libby, amused. ‘And I don’t even know if he’s still with Kent and Coast Television.’

‘Well young Jane’s still with the Mercury, isn’t she?’ said Adam.

‘Young Jane’s nearly ten years older than you,’ said his mother, ‘but yes, she’s still there.’

‘Anyway, I expect it’ll be on TV tomorrow when they’ve found out how old it is,’ said Adam.

‘And what sex it is,’ said Libby.

‘Oh – yes, I suppose so,’ said Adam. ‘Well, I’d better get off. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Libby. ‘I thought you were still in London.’

‘Hardly, if I’m working down here. I’m staying with Mog in Canterbury.’

‘I’ll bet Fiona’s pleased,’ muttered Libby.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing,’ said Libby hastily. ‘Don’t forget you can come here if you want.’

‘Sunday lunch?’ asked Adam, hopefully.

Libby laughed. ‘Of course.’

‘Otherwise it’s easier if I’m here. I can go to work with Mog as I haven’t got transport.’

‘I can always come and pick you up if you want to come here for a night.’

‘Keen to see the scene of the crime, eh, Ma?’ Adam laughed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Libby, feeling a blush creep up her neck. ‘Ring me tomorrow.’

‘Will do,’ said Adam. ‘Night night, Ma. Love you.’

The sound of the kitchen door opening heralded the entrance of Ben Wilde, Libby’s significant other, who spent most of his time at Number 17, Allhallow’s Lane, with Libby and Sidney, and the remainder with his parents, Hetty and Greg, at The Manor as estate manager. A former architect, Ben had sold his flat and partnership after meeting Libby and was trying to persuade her to move in with him permanently, or better still, marry him. Libby was having none of it. She insisted they were Living Apart Together, a fairly new phenomenon known as LAT and particularly popular with the thirty-nine to sixty age group, into which they both fell.

‘Drink?’ he asked after kissing her on the cheek.

‘Not yet.’ Libby stroked Sidney absently.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ben, coming to sit opposite her by the empty fireplace.

‘Adam phoned.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing. He found a body.’

Ben closed his eyes. ‘Oh, no,’ he groaned.

Libby eyed him thoughtfully. ‘That’s exactly what I said, but from a totally different perspective.’

Ben opened his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked cautiously.

‘I was worried for Adam. Finding a body isn’t something you would wish on anyone, let alone your youngest son.’ She looked away into the empty fireplace.

‘Sorry.’ Ben was contrite. ‘Can you tell me about it?’

Libby told him everything Adam had told her.

‘It’s nothing to do with Adam, then, is it? Or even the owner?’

Libby shook her head. ‘It doesn’t look like it. Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s only just bought it.’

‘Who is he exactly?’ Ben got up to refill his glass. ‘Want one yet?’

‘Go on, then.’ Libby tucked her feet under her. ‘Lewis Osbourne-Walker is a television personality.’

‘I gathered that. But is he just a personality, or is he a real person?’

Libby grinned and accepted her glass. ‘Just a personality, I suppose, but quite a nice one.’

Ben snorted. ‘Don’t tell me – a reality show discovery.’

‘Not quite. He was a builder and general handyman on one of the home improvement shows and started getting so much fan mail they gave him his own show.’

‘What sort of show?’

‘Daytime magazine programme,’ said Libby. ‘Very popular, I’m told. Has a very good film critique panel.’

‘And he’s bought Creekmarsh Place?’

‘Yes.’ Libby looked across at him. ‘Do you know it?’

Ben nodded. ‘We used to go sailing there when I was a boy. There used to be a very small sailing club at the mouth of the Wytch, and the grounds of the Place come right down to the river. But we always thought it was a bit spooky. There’s a lane that leads up beside it from the club, which disappears into the trees. Goes past the church, and the pub’s a bit further up on the main road.’

‘Did you ever explore?’ asked Libby.

‘Only up the lane. That’s the only way to get to the sailing club except by sea or river. We used to cycle there.’

‘Who’s we? And whose boat did you sail?’

‘Do you remember Basil?’

‘Basil?’ Libby giggled.

‘Obviously not.’ Ben frowned at her. ‘I went to school with him.’

‘Well, I didn’t know you then, did I?’

‘No, but he was still around when we first met.’

Libby shook her head. ‘Don’t remember, sorry.’

‘Bas’s dad had a little Mirror dinghy and we used to go down and crew for him. Crewed for some of the other members, too. I got quite good at it.’

‘But you gave it up?’

‘When I went to university. Never thought about doing it again, although I sailed on holiday in Corfu a couple of times.’

‘When was that?’

Ben sighed. ‘When I was married, of course. We went to Corfu several years running.’

‘Oh.’ Libby inspected her glass. Both of them had been married before, and both of them had children from these marriages, but she still hated being reminded.

‘So.’ She looked up. ‘Is the sailing club still there?’

‘No idea.’ Ben looked surprised. ‘Why? Do you fancy taking it up?’

‘No fear. Just wondered. If it was there, I thought Adam might be interested.’

‘Not as a novice without a boat,’ said Ben. ‘They didn’t have a training programme or anything. Too small.’

‘Oh, well. Just a thought.’ Libby stood up. ‘I’d better get dinner started.’

‘We can go out if you’d prefer,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t suppose Harry’s full tonight.’

‘I fancy meat,’ said Libby, who nevertheless loved The Pink Geranium, Harry’s vegetarian restaurant.

‘Pub, then,’ suggested Ben. ‘Especially if their steak and ale pie’s on.’

Libby patted his cheek and then his stomach. ‘OK, tubby,’ she said. ‘You give them a ring and I’ll put a bit of face on.’

‘I’ll give you tubby,’ said Ben, catching her as she tried to pass him and pulling her close.

‘Really?’ Libby raised an eyebrow. ‘Now?’

‘In front of Sidney?’ he whispered, running a hand down her back. Libby shivered and wondered how a greying, middle-aged man could still send her hormones spiralling out of control after nearly two years together. Then she stopped wondering.

Chapter Two

IT WAS ON THE national news the following morning. Libby turned up the volume on the kitchen radio and stood sipping tea. Ben had already left for The Manor and Sidney had sniffed dismissively at his breakfast and gone about the business of the day.

‘The skeletal remains of a body discovered in a garden in Kent have been identified as that of a male aged between thirty and fifty,’ read the announcer. ‘Police expect to know later today how long the bones have been in the ground. Meanwhile, the location of the find is not being made known to the public.’

‘Because it belongs to Lewis Osbourne-Walker,’ Libby told the kettle. ‘If it was on a council estate the world and his dog would know the actual address.’

She went to turn on the television to see if there was any more information on the local news programmes, but the phone interrupted her.

‘Fran, hello.’ Libby sat down on the sofa. ‘It’s a bit early. Is anything wrong?’

‘N-no.’ Fran hesitated. ‘I just wondered if you’d like to come down to lunch today.’

Libby frowned. ‘Sure. Any special reason?’

‘Um,’ said Fran. ‘I’d like your advice.’

‘My advice?’ squealed Libby. ‘That’ll be a first.’

‘Don’t get above yourself. Do you want to come down by train so you can have a drink?’

‘Too far,’ said Libby. ‘Remember when Campbell McLean took us to lunch? It took me an hour and a half to get there. I’ll drive and be good.’

‘OK. One o’clock?’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Libby, and she switched off the phone with another frown. Fran had become her best friend over the past couple of years, apart, of course, from Ben and his cousin Peter and Peter’s partner Harry, but it was most unlike Fran to ask advice, or even give much of herself away.

When Fran was introduced to Libby’s friend Guy Wolfe, who lived a few doors along from Fran in the seaside town of Nethergate, a relationship had developed between them, and Libby saw less of Fran now than she had when they first knew one another.

Later in the morning, the phone rang again.

‘Ma, it’s me again,’ said Adam. ‘I suppose you couldn’t pick me up from work this evening, could you? You did say you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Of course, darling,’ said Libby, her interest quickening. ‘Can’t you go home with Mog for some reason?’

‘Oh, it’s part of this bloody body thing,’ said Adam. ‘They’ve stopped us working in the wood – obvious, I suppose – and we’ve started on another part of the garden, but Mog hadn’t got all the plans with him, so he’s going home to work on them while I dig up some paving. He’d have to come back and get me unless you pick me up.’

‘So it’s no great desire to see me, then?’ Libby was amused.

‘Hey, Ma, I’m sorry.’ Adam sounded embarrassed.

‘Don’t be daft. I’ll be there at – what? Five?’

‘Bit earlier? Four thirty? I’ve been here since eight.’

‘OK. Will the police let me through? And do I come down the lane from the main road?’

‘Do you know it?’ Adam sounded surprised.

‘Ben does. Anyway, do I?’

‘Yeah. There’s a drive round the side of the house. I’ll tell the police you’re coming.’

‘Good-oh,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll see you then.’

At one o’clock, she parked Romeo the Renault on Harbour Street, a little way from Fran’s Coastguard Cottage. As it was still only early summer, the beach was not yet crowded, and the little boats that took out day trippers, the Dolphin and the Sparkler, rocked gently at anchor outside The Sloop at the end of the hard. Their captains, George and Bert, sat outside Mavis’s Blue Anchor café drinking huge mugs of tea. Libby waved and Bert waved his pipe back at her.

Fran was waiting with her door open, looking nervous. Libby kissed her cheek and stood back to stare at her.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’

Fran closed the door and indicated an armchair.

‘It’s Guy,’ she said, taking the chair opposite.

‘Guy?’ Libby was surprised. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

Fran took a deep breath. ‘He wants to get married,’ she said.

Libby let out a whoop. ‘Fantastic, Fran! Congratulations!’

‘Hey!’ Fran looked startled. ‘I didn’t say I’d said yes. You won’t marry Ben, after all.’

‘But that’s me,’ said Libby. ‘I’m a stubborn old cow –’

‘Old trout,’ corrected Fran with a grin.

‘All right, old trout,’ agreed Libby, ‘but you aren’t. You’re much more sensible than I am, and more conventional.’

‘Thanks,’ said Fran. ‘That makes me sound like a right old bore.’

‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ said Libby. ‘And you said after you’d moved in here that you wanted to be on your own to savour it for a bit. Well, you’ve done that. You’ve had the cottage for well over a year and your relationship with Guy has got much closer, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Fran twisted her hands together. ‘I don’t think I could live without him, now.’

‘What’s the problem, then?’

‘The children,’ said Fran, looking anguished.

‘The children?’ gasped Libby. ‘Your children?’

Fran nodded.

‘What the hell have they got to do with anything?’

‘They don’t approve.’

Libby sat back in her chair and shook her head. ‘And just what don’t they approve of? You getting married again?’

‘Oh, I haven’t told them that,’ said Fran. ‘It’s just the girls, of course. They think I’m too old to have a new relationship with anyone, and they’re also worried about money.’

‘Money?’ repeated Libby stupidly.

‘Oh, you ought to hear Chrissie on the subject.’ Fran smiled wryly. ‘She’s convinced that my inheritance should have been divided between the children. She can’t understand why I couldn’t just sign over most of it to them. Lucy feels the same. They’re both convinced that Guy will deprive them of their own inheritance.’

‘I’ve never heard anything like it!’ Libby shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’d marry him quick and then change your will!’

‘That’s what you’d do,’ laughed Fran, ‘but then your lot would never behave like this.’

‘With a lovely mum like you, I can’t understand why yours do,’ said Libby.

‘I’ve told you,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘I wasn’t there for them enough when they were growing up. Too intent on pursuing my career.’ She shrugged. ‘All to no avail.’

‘Well, I say go for it,’ said Libby. ‘And don’t invite them to the wedding.’

‘I can’t do that, it wouldn’t be right,’ said Fran.

‘And what happens if they go all sniffy and horrid on the day and spoil it for you?’

‘Do you think they would?’

‘From what I’ve heard about them – and don’t forget I have met them – I bet they would. We’ll just have to station bouncers all round the place to keep them in order.’

Fran laughed again. ‘So you say go for it?’

‘Of course.’ Libby bounced up and gave her friend a hug. ‘With bells on.’

‘Then I’ll get out the champagne,’ said Fran. ‘You can have just one glass before lunch, can’t you?’

Libby rubbed her hands together. ‘You bet!’ she said.

Guy joined them for lunch, obviously delighted at Libby’s reception of their news. Watching them together, she realised that Fran’s mind had been made up before she asked Libby’s advice, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge it to herself. Fran’s lack of self-confidence was still very much in evidence, even though she now owned a beautiful cottage in a highly desirable location, in the past two years had not one but two men interested in her romantically and had been successful in helping the police in four previous murder cases.

But now there was a glow about her. Seeing Fran throw back her head, dark hair swinging, when she laughed at one of Guy’s wicked sallies, Libby was proud of having introduced her to him, a middle-aged puckish figure with a dark goatee and snapping brown eyes.

At four o’clock she got up to go, having helped clear away the champagne glasses and the remaining crumbs of the lunch.

‘You don’t have to go,’ said Fran, freeing herself from Guy’s arm about her shoulders.

‘I do,’ said Libby. ‘I promised to pick Ad up from his job.’

‘What job?’ Guy stood up.

Surprised at herself, Libby realised she hadn’t told either of them about Adam’s discovery, let alone his illustrious employer. She explained.

‘You’re not going to interfere, are you?’ Guy looked suspicious and Libby sighed.

‘Why does everybody think I will?’ she said. ‘Ad hasn’t got transport back to Mog’s, so he asked me. That’s all.’

‘I didn’t see anything about it on the news,’ said Fran.

‘It was on the national news this morning, but it didn’t say where, exactly, or who owns the garden. Ad says they’re keeping it under wraps, and as it’s an old body it isn’t a big thing.’

Fran looked dubious. ‘But old bodies are often very big news,’ she said. ‘Remember those girls who were buried? They were old, but that was a huge investigation.’

‘Yes, well,’ said Libby, feeling uncomfortable, ‘that may be so, but Ad says it’s all very low-key so far.’

‘Perhaps for once the media are being respectful to one of their darlings,’ said Guy. ‘Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s a celebrity, isn’t he?’

‘With nothing known about him,’ said Fran.

‘Except he’s gay,’ said Guy.

‘Guy!’ Libby and Fran turned on him.

‘I only meant it’s the sort of thing they make a big thing of, isn’t it?’ Guy looked defensive.

‘Hardly.’ Fran was scornful. ‘Half the celebrities on TV are gay these days. It makes no difference.’

‘I did mention that to Ad yesterday,’ said Libby. ‘He told me off, but I said Lewis was a bit of a housewives’ favourite and wouldn’t that make a difference.’

‘Of course not,’ said Fran. ‘Only the very oldest housewives would be put off.’

‘Really?’ Libby looked doubtful. ‘What about those people who disapprove of Peter and Harry?’

‘Particularly Harry!’ grinned Guy.

‘So who are they?’ asked Fran. ‘I’ve never met any, and you said yourself how lovely it was in the village with everyone cheering them on when they got married.’

‘Partnershipped,’ corrected Libby automatically. ‘But there was that letter, wasn’t there?’

‘What letter?’ asked Guy, sitting down again.

‘Oh, it was from an old lady in a home, saying that it was an abomination against the Lord, or something,’ said Libby.

‘Don’t be dismissive, Lib,’ said Fran. ‘She was expressing the view that the Bible says it’s illegal and marriage was for the procreation of children.’

‘Oh, I hope not,’ said Guy, making a face at her.

‘I know, bless her, and unfortunately, you can’t argue with someone like that, who’s so entrenched in her own views that she can’t appreciate any other, and certainly wouldn’t want to discuss the truth or autho. . .