Murder in Midwinter

Book 3: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Female Sleuths; Thrillers; Fall & winter reads

Synopsis

Bella Morleigh is astonished when she is left a derelict theatre by her Aunt Maria, a relative she didn’t even know existed. The Alexandria theatre has been in the family for years, and Aunt Maria was determined that it should stay that way. However, when Bella visits the place for the first time she finds more than she bargained for: a dead boy. Inspector Connell advises her to call in the help of local psychic Fran Castle. Fran, with the help of her amateur sleuthing partner, Libby Sarjeant, begins to delve into Bella’s tangled family history - with alarming results.

Release date: May 1, 2012

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 287

Sample

Chapter One

‘BLOODY AWFUL, AREN’T THEY?’ muttered Peter Parker, as Libby Sarjeant returned to her seat in the auditorium to pick up her script and basket, having dismissed the cast of Jack and the Beanstalk after a fairly dismal rehearsal.

‘No worse than they were for The Hop Pickers. They’ll be all right.’ Libby crossed her fingers.

‘Sure we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew?’ Peter wound a scarf round his neck as they went into the foyer.

‘Oh, I expect so. After all, we don’t do things by halves, do we?’ Libby went to switch off the lights. ‘Our first play, written by you in a theatre owned by your family and converted by your cousin Ben was somewhat marred by a murder, so in a spirit of reckless abandon, we decide to do a pantomime, also written by you, with musicians we’ve never worked with and an inexperienced cast.’

Peter held the glass doors open for her. ‘Piece of cake,’ he grinned.

‘Not, of course, to mention the fact that in amongst all this we have Christmas and your wedding.’

‘Civil Partnership, dearie,’ he corrected.

‘Same thing. How’s it going, anyway?’

‘Nothing to it.’ Peter shrugged. ‘Harry’s doing it all.’

Libby raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

The pub, in the middle of the village High Street, had appeared on many postcards and calendars. With its hanging baskets now filled with seasonal holly, the windows shining like golden nuggets in the darkness, Libby decided it would make a great Christmas card. Inside, the fire was roaring, and several members of the cast were herded together in the smaller of the two bars. Harry, Peter’s intended and owner of The Pink Geranium, still in chef’s trousers but with a fleece jacket instead of his whites, waved a pint in their direction.

‘Hello, dear hearts,’ he said. ‘What are you having?’

‘Lager, please,’ said Libby. ‘You’re early, aren’t you?’

‘He shouldn’t be working at all,’ said Peter. ‘Monday’s usually his day off.’

‘Oh, yes. Why is he, then?’

‘Christmas party. Special booking. Loads of them between now and the big day.’

Harry handed them both glasses. ‘Need all the dosh we can get for our big day, dear,’ he said.

Libby changed the subject. ‘Anyone seen Fran?’

‘She’s in London seeing to the house sale,’ said Harry. ‘She popped in this morning on her way out.’

‘Good, because she forgot to tell me she was going and I was without a Baroness at the rehearsal tonight.’

‘Where’s young Ben, then?’ asked Harry, making a dive for a table that had just become free.

‘He said he’d meet us here,’ said Libby. ‘He popped in to see his Mum.’

‘Uncle Greg’s not too well again,’ said Peter. ‘I just hope he doesn’t get worse before Christmas.’

‘So do I.’ Libby looked gloomy.

‘Because you might lose your wicked Baron?’ said Harry mischievously.

‘No!’ Libby was indignant. ‘Because it’s awful to lose someone at any time of year, but Christmas is worse, somehow.’

‘Ey-up,’ said Harry suddenly. ‘Don’t look now, but guess who’s just come in?’

‘Who?’ said Libby, turning round immediately. ‘Blimey!’

‘Who is it?’ Peter craned round her to see.

‘It’s that Inspector, you know, Connell.’

‘He’s still after Fran,’ said Harry with glee.

‘He’s not after Fran,’ said Libby, although she was by no means sure. Inspector Connell had been involved in a recent murder investigation during which he had met both Libby and Fran, and afterwards had showed a marked predilection for Fran’s company.

Peter snorted.

‘Good evening, Mrs Sarjeant.’

Libby looked up at the tall, dark man looming over the table. ‘Good evening, Inspector Connell,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid Fran isn’t here. She’s in London.’

‘I know. I spoke to her this morning.’

‘Oh.’ Libby was taken aback.

‘Just wanted to say hello.’ He nodded affably round the table. ‘I’ll see you before the trial, I expect.’

‘Oh, God, another trial,’ moaned Libby, as he moved away to join a group of people on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Never had anything to do with the police in my life and now I’ve got two trials to go to. In less than a year!’

‘Well, you could have stayed out of the last one,’ said Peter, reasonably. ‘You didn’t have to get involved.’

‘But it was Fran. She needed me.’

‘Well, it obviously wasn’t Fran he was here for tonight,’ said Harry, still staring at the imposing back of Inspector Connell. ‘I wonder why she called him this morning?’

‘We’re supposed to keep the police informed if we go anywhere,’ explained Libby. ‘In case they need us for more questions or anything.’

‘Is that normal?’ asked Peter. ‘Or just because Connell’s interested in Fran?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘Stop badgering.’

‘Is Fran still after that cottage in Nethergate?’ said Harry, still watching Connell.

Peter followed his gaze. ‘Hoy. Eyes right, love.’

‘I was just wondering if it was him or Guy she wanted to be in Nethergate for,’ said Harry, patting Peter’s hand.

‘Why should it be either?’ Libby finished her lager. ‘She just wants to buy the cottage back that should have been hers. I don’t blame her, either. It’s a gorgeous location.’

‘But unhappy memories, I would have thought,’ said Peter.

‘Not any more. She seems to have exorcised those. She just remembers the holidays. Happy memories.’

‘She certainly seems to have honed her – what do you call them – psychic powers? Doesn’t she?’ said Harry.

‘Because she needed to use them,’ said Libby. ‘She’s not so frightened of them now, although she still doesn’t trust them properly.’

‘And what about your idea of a detective agency?’ grinned Harry.

‘Your idea, you mean. You were the one who started it.’ Libby grinned back. ‘I still think it’s a great idea.’

‘Libby, don’t be daft,’ said Peter. ‘You said yourself, the police always get there before you do.’

‘Ah, but not always the same way. And anyway, there are bound to be little matters which wouldn’t interest the police, like finding out about houses –’

‘Fran does that already, for Goodall and Smythe,’ put in Harry.

‘No, things about houses people already own. Or things they’ve lost. Oh, I don’t know. There must be loads.’

‘Well, let Fran get settled before you go involving her in hare-brained schemes,’ said Peter. ‘As you so rightly said earlier on, there’s a lot going on at the moment. She’s trying to sell the London house, buy the Nethergate cottage and be the Baroness in our panto.’

Libby felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘And just where was my Baroness tonight?’

She looked up and smiled, thrilled to find her solar plexus quivering at the sight of her beloved, even though they’d now been together for several months and she should be used to it.

‘What-ho, Ben,’ said Harry. ‘Are you buying?’

‘All right, but I still want to know where Fran was,’ said Ben, giving his cousin Peter a friendly clap on the shoulder. Libby explained about Fran while she went with him to the bar.

‘She forgot,’ she said, ‘she’s got a lot on her mind.’

‘And I don’t think Guy’s helping,’ said Ben, handing her two glasses.

‘Guy? Why? He’s really keen, although I’m not sure about her,’ said Libby, weaving through bodies towards their table. Guy Wolfe had also been peripherally involved in the recent investigation and had almost managed to appoint himself Fran’s significant other. But not quite.

‘Too keen, and a bit jealous.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Libby nodded towards the group by the fireplace. ‘Inspector Connell.’

Ben looked surprised. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘Meeting friends, by the look of things,’ said Harry, accepting his drink. ‘Nothing to do with Fran, apparently.’

Ben looked at Libby.

‘True. He knew she’d gone to London.’

‘Ah.’

‘You wait till tomorrow,’ muttered Libby. ‘She’s got some explaining to do.’

‘It’s her own business, Lib,’ said Ben, gently.

‘Not if it affects my pantomime,’ said Libby, ‘then it’s mine.’

Later, as Ben and Libby walked back to her cottage in Allhallow’s Lane, he returned to the subject.

‘Aren’t you and Fran getting on so well any more?’

Libby looked at him, surprised. ‘Of course we are. Why?’

‘You seemed a bit put out with her.’

‘Only because she’s been holding out on me. I don’t call that friendly.’

‘You said she forgot the rehearsal.’

‘That’s what Harry said. I think she talks to him more than she does to me.’ Libby sounded grumpy.

‘See, you’re not getting on so well.’ Ben dug her in the ribs.

‘Well, I thought we were. She obviously doesn’t.’

They turned into Allhallow’s Lane. The lilac and cherry trees overhanging the old brick wall on the left poked bare branches at their hair and scraped eerily on the wall.

‘Do you remember when I first asked if you wanted me to see you home?’ said Ben, squeezing Libby’s arm.

‘And I said no. And then regretted it.’

‘Did you?’ Ben turned to look at her. ‘Oh, good.’

She smiled at him. ‘Yes,’ she said.

Libby was drinking tea at the kitchen table the following morning when the phone rang.

‘It’s me,’ said Fran. ‘I’m so sorry about last night. I meant to get back in time, but I got held up and my mobile ran out of charge.’

‘OK.’ Libby took the phone back into the kitchen with her and turfed Sidney, her overfed silver tabby, off her chair. ‘I thought you were staying up there overnight.’

‘How did you know I’d gone?’

‘Harry told me.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t get home until after midnight.’

‘How did you get back from the station?’

‘Taxi.’ There was no mistaking the triumph in Fran’s voice. ‘You just cannot imagine the joy of being able to afford a taxi.’

‘Oh, I can,’ said Libby, who couldn’t.

‘Anyway, the house is sold – more or less –’

‘To those developers?’

‘Yes. Well, once I found out about what had happened there I didn’t want to keep it. So now all I’ve got to do is sort out the Nethergate cottage and I’ll be done.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby, remembering, ‘that Inspector Connell turned up at the pub last night.’

There was a short silence. ‘Did he?’ said Fran eventually.

‘It’s all right, he wasn’t there to see you,’ said Libby, slightly maliciously. ‘He was meeting friends.’

‘Oh.’

‘But he said you’d called him that morning.’

‘No. He called me. To say he was meeting friends in the pub and if I was around could he buy me a drink.’

‘I thought you’d rung him.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Libby, exasperated. ‘I thought you were keeping something from me.’

‘A secret affair with Inspector Connell?’ Fran laughed.

‘He’s quite attractive.’

‘I know. So’s Guy.’

‘Who’s acting like a terrier with a bone, I gather?’

‘Who says?’

‘Ben. I don’t know how he knew, though.’

‘Libby, you live in a small rural community. Even I know how gossip spreads in a place like this.’

‘Really? Well, can you tell me? Because I can never work it out.’

Fran laughed. ‘Come off it. You’re one of the nosiest people I know.’

Libby sniffed. ‘I find out things. So do you.’ She paused. ‘Harry was asking about the detective agency last night.’

Fran sighed. ‘Oh, Libby, be serious. Do you really want to go through all the complications of setting up a business? Trying to get clients? Just because we’ve been involved in a couple of murders by accident?’

‘Don’t trivialise them!’

‘I’m not, but it’s very different being involved because you actually are involved to barging into an investigation.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of doing that,’ said Libby indignantly. ‘It was more lost items, or – or well, what you do already, but not for estate agents.’

‘Well, it’s not on, whatever it is,’ said Fran. ‘Now, would you like to come to lunch and I’ll tell you about the house progress and everything?’

‘Great,’ said Libby, cheering up. ‘I’ll bring a bottle. What time?’

Chapter Two

ROBERT GRIMSHAW OF GRIMSHAW and Taylor came round a teak desk that had been the height of furnishing fashion in the sixties. Bella thought that he had probably got stuck in the same time warp.

‘Mrs Morleigh. So pleased to meet you. Do sit down. Tea? Or coffee?’

‘Er –’ said Bella.

‘Tray of tea, please.’ Robert Grimshaw addressed the secretary hovering by the door without looking at her and went back to his chair behind his desk. ‘Now,’ he said, opening a buff folder. ‘I expect all this came as a bit of a shock to you?’

‘You could say that.’ Bella smiled, trying to relax her tense shoulders and sit more comfortably in the low slung chair.

‘It surprised me, as well, and I knew Miss Alexander.’ Robert Grimshaw surveyed Bella over his clasped hands. ‘You have a look of her, you know.’

‘I do?’ Bella was obscurely pleased.

‘Remarkably well preserved lady for her age. Ninety-two, she was, you know.’

‘Ninety-two? My father would have been eighty-eight this year.’

‘That would be Bertram, Miss Alexander’s half brother.’ Robert Grimshaw looked up as the door opened to admit the secretary struggling under the weight of a laden tea tray. Bella had to fight with herself not to get up and help while Robert Grimshaw merely watched benignly, tutting when a little tea trickled out of the spout.

‘Will you be mother?’ He leaned towards her archly. Bella tried to avoid the pale eyes which swept her lasciviously as, gritting her teeth, she levered herself to the edge of the chair and poured tea into two pale green cups.

‘So.’ Robert Grimshaw sat back in his chair and sipped his tea appreciatively, his expression as he looked over the rim of the cup still faintly salacious. Bella, unused to such admiration, felt uncomfortable.

‘Let’s fill you in a bit. How much do you know about your Aunt Maria?’

‘Nothing at all. I didn’t even know she existed.’ Bella considered leaning back in her chair and decided against it as the tea in her cup threatened to transfer itself to her saucer.

‘But you knew your grandmother?’

‘Hardly. She died a year after I was born. My father didn’t talk about her much.’

‘I gather he left home very early and went to work in the city.’ Robert Grimshaw referred to something in the buff folder.

‘As soon as he could, I think.’ Bella replaced her cup on the tray and edged surreptitiously back in to the chair. There was no beating it, she decided, as she collapsed backwards.

‘You know your grandmother’s name?’

‘Dorinda? My maiden name was Durbridge, so presumably she was Dorinda Durbridge.’

‘No, she never was.’ Robert Grimshaw looked pleased by Bella’s surprise. ‘She was Dorinda Alexander. She never married. Your father took his father’s name – in fact, he was registered as Durbridge on his birth certificate.’

Bella thought for a moment. ‘So who was my grandfather?’

‘A gentleman called Daniel Durbridge. I don’t have much information about him, I’m afraid.’

‘So my grandmother was a bit of a girl?’

Robert Grimshaw sighed. ‘Well – yes. But there is quite a story to all this. I don’t know all of it, but I expect Maria will have told you.’

‘Maria? Oh, my aunt. But she hasn’t told me anything. I’ve just said – I never met her.’

‘No, but she left some documents to be passed on to you, and I would assume she will have written you a letter. She wrote one for your father, but she destroyed it when he died.’

‘How did she know about us?’ Bella had forgotten about the uncomfortable chair.

‘She kept track of both Bertram and you.’

‘Did he know about her?’

‘Oh, yes. They both lived here. But he left home and she stayed here to run the theatre.’

‘Theatre? What theatre?’

‘The Alexandria.’ He frowned. ‘I did tell you in the letter.’

‘No, you just said my aunt had left me property including March Cottage.’

‘Oh.’ He picked up what was obviously a copy of the letter and tutted. ‘Dear me. Well, she has also left you the Alexandria. I could never understand why she didn’t sell it, myself.’

Stunned, Bella gaped at him. ‘Do you mean to say –’ she gasped, when she could speak, ‘that I own a theatre?’

‘Well, yes. Except that it’s virtually derelict.’

‘Where is it?’

‘At the western end of the bay. It looks out over the sea – quite a pretty spot, actually. But it’s been boarded up for years. It was used for storage for a long time – various people used to rent it.’

‘Could it be restored?’ Bella’s mind was leaping ahead.

Robert Grimshaw looked bewildered. ‘Restored? What for?’

‘To use as a theatre, of course. There isn’t one here, is there?’

‘Well, no. There’s the Carlton Pavilion – they have entertainment, but –’

‘Well, there you are then! Every seaside town needs a live theatre!’ Bella pushed herself out of the chair and it banged loudly on the floor, affronted.

‘Good heavens! You can’t mean that you’d want to do that? It closed because of lack of interest. You’d never keep it going.’

‘Well, I can look in to it, can’t I? When did it close?’

‘Years ago. In the fifties, I think. She could have sold the site for quite a lot then – and even more in the eighties. I intended to get it on the market for you as soon as possible. I even had it valued.’ Robert Grimshaw looked extremely put out.

‘Well, I’m sorry.’ Bella sat down again and the chair hit her behind the knees. ‘I love the theatre you see. Perhaps I got a bit carried away.’

‘Yes.’ He looked at her warily. ‘Well. I am to give you the keys of both properties, her deed box which contains the documents I mentioned, and arrange an advance on her bank account. Probate won’t take long, but in the meantime, you cannot sell anything of hers, or draw on her bank. If you’ll give me details of your bank, I will make the necessary arrangements.’

Bella was beginning to feel shell-shocked. ‘Bank account? I didn’t know anything about that.’

‘Well, you are Miss Alexander’s sole legatee.’ He looked at her as though she was half-witted. ‘Obviously you would inherit her bank account. Not that there’s much in it,’ he added, as an afterthought.

It was another twenty minutes before Bella came out into the autumn sunshine clutching a folder of documents and feeling dazed. Her first thought was to phone home and share the incredible news, until she remembered that Andrew would be at work and the children at school. Not, she realised, that Andrew was going to be overjoyed anyway, having only been interested in the re-sale value of her inheritance in the first place. She walked slowly along the narrow High Street until she found a cafe that had remained open after the end of the summer season, where she could while away the hour or so until she reconvened with Robert Grimshaw, who was going to take her to see March Cottage.

‘Is this it?’

Visions of a whitewashed cottage with roses climbing over the door and into the thatch disappeared. Bella sat in Mr Grimshaw’s car and stared at the row of red brick cottages, their front doors opening straight on to the narrow street. The third one from the right had “March Cottage” on the planked wooden door in uncompromisingly plain metal letters. Both door and letters were painted the sort of green she remembered from her childhood, neither emerald nor bottle nor apple, but reminiscent of grim school buildings.

‘Yes, this is it.’ Robert Grimshaw got out of the car and politely came to open the passenger door for her. ‘Very desirable property, this. Second homes, you know.’

Bella did know, and had always despised second home owners who plucked the best properties from the mouths – figuratively speaking – of the local people. Now, it seemed, she was one herself. She followed Mr Grimshaw to the door, which he opened with a struggle, the door sticking in the frame as if reluctant to let them inside.

‘A bit musty,’ he said cheerfully, as he led the way in to the sitting room and put a hand to the light switch. ‘Oh, dear. Electricity’s not on. I’ll see to it, if you like.’

Bella nodded absently, taking in the over-furnished room, the high-backed wooden chairs with their patchwork cushions either side of what looked like a genuine range, the tables laden with small ornaments and photographs on lace covers stiff, now, with dust and neglect. Her eyes went to the window, hung with lace curtains under worn velvet, and despite the lowering grey clouds which had begun to gather over the sea since lunchtime, her spirits lifted.

‘How soon could we get the electricity on?’ she asked, turning back to Robert Grimshaw, who was running a bony finger along the top of a doorframe.

‘Oh, a day or so. Why – not thinking of staying here, are you?’ He laughed heartily.

‘Well, yes, actually.’ Bella hadn’t known that, but it was quite obvious that she was. ‘After all, whatever I do with the cottage, it will need cleaning up, won’t it? Would it be all right if I stayed here? I mean, with probate and everything?’

‘No problem – but are you sure? I mean, it’s not exactly up to date, is it?’ He was looking at her as though she’d suddenly grown an extra head.

‘Well, I’ll soon find out, won’t I?’ Bella smiled at him and held out her hand. ‘May I have the keys, now? I don’t want to hold you up any longer.’

‘Don’t you want me to drive you back? I thought I could take you to the station – save you a taxi.’ His expression told her that he was fast having his first impression of her confirmed – she was batty.

‘No, thank you, Mr Grimshaw. I’ve taken up far too much of your time already.’ Bella smiled sweetly at him again.

Clearing his throat and going faintly pink, Robert Grimshaw edged a little closer. ‘Ah – no trouble at all, I assure you. Matter of fact, I was going to suggest a spot of tea –’

‘No, no. I shall be fine – really.’ Bella, the smile solidifying on her face. ‘May I have the keys?’

He handed her a large bunch of keys with a buff label attached. ‘The keys to the other building are there, as well. I don’t advise you going inside it, though. It could be dangerous.’

‘I’ll be careful.’ Bella moved towards the door, hoping he would take the hint.

‘Call the office in the morning and I’ll be able to tell you about the gas and electricity.’ He sighed and stooped to go out of the door. ‘Good luck, Mrs Morleigh.’

Bella watched him drive down to the end of the little street and went back inside. She was conscious of a rising sense of excitement as she explored the cottage. Despite Robert Grimshaw’s gloomy predictions, it was in very good order. The range, when inspected, still contained grey ash and half-burnt wood, so, clearly, it had been functioning until Maria died, and in the two bedrooms at the top of the enclosed staircase, modern, slimline storage heaters had been installed. Both these rooms contained old metal bedsteads, whether or not they were brass Bella couldn’t tell, both made up with white linen sheets, blankets and hand-crocheted bedspreads. A thick sage green carpet covered the whole of the upper floor and continued down the stairs, where it gave way to polished floorboards and rugs in the front room and a step down on to the stone flags of the kitchen. Here, an old wire-fronted cabinet and a huge dresser provided the storage, while an ancient cream Rayburn proved to be the only cooking source. The deep Butler sink was crackle-glazed but clean, except where the cold tap had dripped over the months and left a raindrop-shaped stain. Through a door on one side of the sink was a lobby with a door to the garden and a variety of baskets and old boots, newspapers and flowerpots, and the door to the bathroom. Bella stopped in surprise.

The bathroom had been fitted very recently. Pristine white fittings had their full complement of aids for the disabled, the flooring was soft cork tiles and a top of the range electronic shower had been fitted over the bath, which had a pull out seat at the other end. Over the sink stood one or two little bottles and a tube of Steradent tablets.

A sudden thump against the frosted window and a dark shape appeared. Bella jumped, her heart racing. The shape patted the glass. ‘Miaow,’ it said, faintly. Bella backed out of the bathroom and struggled with the bolts on the back door. When she eventually won, she had barely pulled the door open a crack before a fluffy black cat with a distinguished white shirt front had pushed its way in and started winding itself around her legs.

‘Well, hello.’ Bella bent down and stroked the long fur. ‘And who might you be?’

The cat walked away from her hand and straight to the Rayburn, where it began sniffing round the floor. It turned to look at Bella, then went into the sitting room, jumped on to one of the wooden chairs and began to wash.

Bella watched it for a moment. It must know the house well, but it obviously didn’t belong here, or it would have starved in the four months since Maria died. And this cat was by no means starving.

She settled down in the chair opposite the cat, picked up the buff folder and leant towards the window to catch the light. Mr Grimshaw had opened the deed box in her presence and, sure enough it had revealed a letter addressed to “My niece, Arabella Durbridge.”

‘That was why we had a bit of trouble tracing you,’ Robert Grimshaw had explained. ‘We assumed that was your name now – she didn’t leave any indication that you had married.’

Funny names, thou. . .