Murder in Steeple Martin

Book 1: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Female Sleuths; Thrillers

Synopsis

Ex-actress Libby Sarjeant is producing and directing a play in her home village of Steeple Martin. She never expected her exciting new venture to lead to romance - and she certainly didn't expect mystery, intrigue and murder. When a series of accidents culminates in murder being committed, Libby is compelled to find out if its roots are in the past or the more sordid present. A cast of local characters alternately helps and hinders her, including Fran, the sceptical psychic and Sidney the guard cat.

Release date: May 1, 2012

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 340

Sample

Chapter One

LIBBY SAT ON A plastic chair in the middle of what would be the auditorium of the Oast House Theatre and considered mass murder. Her feet were cold, her hands were cold, she was thirsty and it seemed to her that every single person on the stage – and behind it – was going out of their way to do exactly the opposite of what she wanted.

‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered as a member of the cast ran to the wrong corner of the stage again and then stopped and looked for a prompt.

‘Other way, Emma,’ she called, just refraining from adding, ‘You silly cow.’ What was the matter with the girl? She was behaving like a rank amateur. She was an amateur. Oh, bloody hell again.

The rehearsal wore on. The partially constructed hop garden at the back of the stage was showing an alarming tendency to become part of the action and was constantly being propped up by nervous actors; the back-stage team were having a violent argument at a pitch the actors could only dream about and the plastic chair was getting harder and harder.

‘That’s it,’ said Libby standing up suddenly and dislodging a pile of the lighting technician’s notes. ‘Let’s all go to the pub.’

Silence fell and bewildered faces turned towards her.

‘But we haven’t done scene three,’ came a plaintive voice from the back of the set.

‘We haven’t done scenes one and two, either, have we? Not properly. Not so’s you’d notice.’

‘What?’ People began looking at each other, shrugging.

‘That’s a bit unfair, Libby,’ said the plaintive voice.

‘On me, yes.’ Libby walked forward, gathering her long cardigan around her. ‘Now don’t get me started, or I shall bawl you all out and you’ll hate me. So, let’s go and have a sociable drink and forget it for tonight. We’ll put in an extra rehearsal tomorrow …’

Howls of protest met this remark, as she’d known they would.

‘I can’t make tomorrow –’

‘I haven’t got a babysitter –’

‘It’s my late night –’

‘But tonight was extra! I only said I’d do a Sunday as a favour –’

‘Try.’ Libby was firm. ‘Everybody who can. We go up in less than two weeks and this – not to put too fine a point on it – is a shambles. Pull your socks up and I’ll see you here at seven-thirty tomorrow night.’

She watched the cast gather their belongings together and mutter their way towards the back of the theatre.

‘Libby, darling,.’ came a voice from behind her, ‘you must meet my dear mama.’

Libby turned the full force of her smile upwards at the severely coiffured head of the woman standing next to Peter Parker.

‘How lovely to meet you,’ she said. ‘Peter’s told me so much about you.’

Peter acknowledged this patent untruth with a lift of an eyebrow and turned to his mother.

‘Mum, this is Libby Sarjeant –’

‘With a J,’ interrupted Libby automatically.

‘With a J,’ Peter continued smoothly. ‘You’ve heard all about Libby, haven’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Libby detected a faint twang of something other than Home Counties in the nasal voice. ‘You’re the lady who’s come to help Peter with his little play.’

Libby saw Peter suppress a wince and fumbled for his hand to administer a solidarity squeeze.

‘Not exactly come specifically, Mum. She lives here already.’

‘Yes, dear.’ Peter’s mother inclined her head. ‘Where was it now? I’m sure you told me.’

‘Allhallow’s Lane, yes, Mum …’ Peter was clearly getting impatient. ‘We’re all going for a drink. Would you like to come with us?’

Millicent Parker’s face showed a certain degree of horror at this suggestion and she moved towards the back of the auditorium.

‘No, thank you, dear.’ She bestowed what she obviously thought was a smile on Libby. ‘But thank you for asking me. I’ll just pop off home.’

‘She didn’t even say what she thought of the play,’ said Libby wonderingly, gazing after the retreating figure. ‘I thought she wanted to come and see it.’

‘She did. She asked. Wanted to make sure it was suitable for her little boy to be mixed up with.’

A tall figure in pink shirt and leather trousers, blond hair flopping over his brow, emerged from back-stage as Peter was closing the door. ‘Who was that?’

‘My mother.’ Peter flung himself onto Libby’s abandoned chair.

‘Oh, ’er. All padlocked knickers and spray polish,’ said Harry. ‘We going to the pub?’

Libby sighed. ‘I don’t really feel like it, if you don’t mind,’ she said.

‘I don’t, but I think your stage manager might be miffed. He’s already gone.’

Peter reached over and patted him firmly on the bottom. ‘Make us a cuppa, then, love.’

‘Oh, make it yourself,’ grumbled Harry, but disappeared into the kitchen nevertheless.

Libby sat on the edge of the stage and found her cigarettes. ‘So that’s your mama.’

‘That’s her. All M&S pretties and hair like a middle-aged Barbie.’

‘She doesn’t look like a farmer’s wife.’

‘Well, it’s the old East End, isn’t it? Not county born and bred.’

Harry came in with a beautiful decoupage tray and assorted chipped mugs. ‘Sorry about these. We’ve used all the decent ones.’ He handed a mug to Libby, pulled up another plastic chair beside Peter, sat down and lifted Peter’s feet on to his lap.

‘I’m not sure I understand your family,’ said Libby. ‘It’s very complicated.’

‘That’s because you have a sweet, simple nature, you old trout.’ Peter sipped his tea. ‘Like us. That’s why you fit in here.’

‘The theatre or Steeple Martin, do you mean? I wonder. They don’t really know anything about me.’ Libby frowned into her mug.

‘They know you’re divorced and you’ve got children.’ Harry shrugged. ‘Probably know how often you wash your sheets and whether you’ve had the change yet, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Libby nodded, acknowledging the omniscience of villagers.

‘Anyway, I like it. I love the cottage. And it’ll be lovely to have the theatre.’

‘If we ever get the bloody thing off the ground.’ Peter said, absent-mindedly resting his mug on Harry’s crotch.

‘Watch the goods, dear,’ said Harry, gently moving it aside.

Libby looked up. ‘I thought we were getting it off the ground. The theatre’s nearly finished, we’ve only got two weeks until we open – what’s the matter?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m just filled with doom and despondency the further into it we get. Who’s going to come to a converted oast house in the depths of Kent to see an unknown play performed by amateurs?’

Libby stood up. ‘Publicity, that’s what we need. Something to make it stick in people’s minds, so that they say – “Oh, yes, The Oast House. That’s where they did that terrific –” well, I don’t know, but terrific something. Harry’s caff’s doing OK. And that was good opening publicity, wasn’t it? And people remember the name.’

‘I wish I could forget it,’ said Harry gloomily. ‘Pink bloody Geranium. What a name for a caff.’

‘Didn’t you name it, then?’ asked Libby, surprised.

‘No, it was already The Pink Geranium. I thought it sounded good for a vegetarian restaurant,’ said Peter, ‘but a ponced-up caff is hardly the same as a theatre, is it?’

Harry came over and pulled Libby off the stage.

‘Oh, come on. Let’s go to the pub after all. A game of darts might cheer the old sod up.’

‘I really won’t come if you don’t mind,’ said Libby swathing herself in blue wool. ‘I need to think what to do with them tomorrow. And I’ve got to get back to Sidney.’

‘Have you got to go and feed that walking stomach of yours?’

‘Sidney is a very well-built cat,’ Libby defended.

‘Spoilt rotten and completely dictatorial. I wonder you didn’t call him Hitler,’ said Peter.

‘And I need to go and be nice to the crew. If they’re still here.’

‘Most of them. Stephen went because you said you were going,’ said Harry.

‘Yes,’ Libby sighed. ‘Never mind.’

Peter grinned at her. ‘That was telling ’em, though, ducky. Needed a nuclear device up the jacksie tonight, didn’t they?’

In the unfinished emptiness of the auditorium, she made her way round back-stage to soothe the ruffled spirits in the workshop. A hand fell on her shoulder, making her jump.

‘Stephen! I thought you’d gone.’

‘I thought you were going to the pub, but Harry and Peter said you were still here.’ Stephen’s light, pleasant voice sounded slightly petulant.

Libby picked her way carefully between new ropes and stage weights, feeling in front of her with an outstretched hand. ‘I wasn’t really in the mood. Sorry, Stephen. You go.’

‘No, I’ll walk you home. You shouldn’t be out on your own at this time of night.’ He held the door to the workshop open for her.

‘In Steeple Martin?’ She laughed. ‘Can’t see anything happening to me here.’

The remaining two members of the back-stage crew were putting on their coats and switching lights off.

‘You OK, you two? I wasn’t moaning at you, earlier, by the way.’

They both grinned and assured her they were immune to moaning.

‘Can you come tomorrow?’

No, they couldn’t they said, or their wives would have their guts for garters, but they’d be there the day after.

‘I can’t either, Libby,’ said Stephen as they walked back through the darkened theatre and he turned to lock the doors behind them.

‘Never mind. It’s the actors who need the rehearsal, not back-stage.’

‘Yes, but I’m stage manager. I ought to be there.’

‘It’s fine. Pete’ll be with me. And we won’t move anything on set, just work round it.’

Stephen took her arm and frowned at her as they walked down the drive to the High Street. ‘Peter’s always here. Does he need to be?’

Libby looked up, surprised. ‘He wrote it, it’s his baby. Of course he wants to be here.’

‘So why was his mother here tonight?’

‘The play’s about his family. She just wanted to see what’s going on.’

‘She didn’t look too pleased.’ Stephen smiled grimly.

‘No, she didn’t, did she? Don’t know why, she was only a baby when it all happened.’

‘The main character’s her sister? Peter’s aunt?’ asked Stephen, as they turned into the High Street.

Libby closed her eyes and hung on to her temper. ‘Did you not read the script, Stephen?’

‘Of course!’ He sounded surprised. ‘But the script doesn’t say who the real people were. And I haven’t had much discussion with you since you asked me in to take over back-stage.’

‘Sorry,’ said Libby remorsefully, ‘I know I’ve taken advantage of you.’

Stephen was resident stage manager at the Little Theatre where, over the years, Libby had made a name for herself as an actor and director. Now, faced with the challenge of a new theatre and inexperienced but willing stage crew, Libby had persuaded him to come and take charge. A divorcee like herself, he had interpreted her request in a somewhat more intimate manner than Libby had intended, but she was managing to keep him at bay so far, with the help of Peter and Harry, whom Stephen quite obviously resented.

Allhallow’s Lane led off the High Street, an indeterminate huddle of cottages of varying ages, which petered out in a half-hearted manner in front of what could have been a green.

‘Well, you could tell me now,’ Stephen said, as they approached the green. ‘I could come in for coffee?’

‘I’m tired, Stephen. That’s why I didn’t go for a drink. And you’ve got half an hour’s drive home, don’t forget.’

She saw him open his mouth to reply, and knew he was going to suggest that he stayed. She hurried on.

‘It’s really very simple. Peter’s Aunt Hetty came down here to Manor Farm as a hop picker with her mother and sister, who is Peter’s mother Millie. One weekend when their brother, Lenny, was down here with their father, a tallyman was killed and their father disappeared. Eventually Hetty married Greg, the owner of Manor Farm.’

‘So they’re all still alive?’ asked Stephen, coming to a halt by his car, parked on the verge opposite Libby’s cottage.

‘Yes, and they all live here, except Lenny. Even Hetty and Greg’s children, Susan and Ben, are local.’

‘And Peter? Does he have any brothers or sisters?’

‘One younger brother, James. He lives in Canterbury.’

Stephen frowned down at the car keys in his hand. ‘And none of them married?’

Libby shot him a surprised look. ‘Eh? Well, Hetty and Greg obviously are. Millie’s husband died, Ben’s divorced and Susan is married to a local doctor. And Peter …’

‘Is married to Harry.’ Stephen raised an eyebrow. ‘More or less.’

‘And they’re very happy.’ Libby tightened her lips.

Stephen laughed. ‘Don’t jump to their defence, Lib. I wasn’t criticising.’

‘You don’t like them.’

‘Peter always seems to be there when I try and talk to you. I think it’s more that he doesn’t like me rather than the other way round.’

Libby let herself relax. It was probably true. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it.’ She reached up impulsively and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Off you go. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.’

Chapter Two

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT’S REHEARSAL was marginally better, although not as well attended by either crew or cast, but, nevertheless, Libby felt able to go and have a drink with the cast, if only to deprive them of the pleasure of talking about her behind her back.

The pub, much beloved of calendar photographers, rested wearily against an upright Georgian house in the middle of the High Street. One day, Libby was convinced, its hanging baskets would slide right in through the windows next door. She pushed open the door and battled her way through bucolic humanity to the side bar where the cast and crew who were allowed to stay out after ten o’clock had gathered in a dismal group. Peter put a pint of lager into her hand.

‘A pint? I can’t cope with these big glasses.’

‘Oh, shut up, do. Come on, someone, give Auntie Libby a seat.’

One of the younger women stood up. ‘Here you are, Libby. I can stand.’

‘So what’s the gossip, then?’ asked Libby, as she squeezed into the vacated seat.

‘Uncle Lenny’s back.’

‘Who?’

‘Uncle Lenny. My Uncle Lenny. Bert in the play.’

Libby squinted up at the tall figure beside her. ‘I thought he didn’t visit?’

‘Apparently, he heard all about our little play. He just arrived. This afternoon. Turned up as large as life on Aunt Hetty’s doorstep. She wasn’t tickled pink, I can tell you.’

‘I bet she wasn’t. How long’s he staying?’

Peter shrugged. ‘Until he’s seen the play, anyway. My mama is devastated.’

‘Is she?’ Libby was interested. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Bit of a puzzle, really. She doesn’t remember anything about our real life drama, she was too young at the time, so it’s a mystery. Started telling me on the phone that I shouldn’t ever have written the play. That it would drag it all up again. I said it was a bit late for that. It’s already been dragged.’

‘Did she object before?’ asked Libby. ‘Or was it just because she came to see it last night?’

‘Not much.’ Peter shrugged. ‘More than anyone else did, funnily enough. Aunt Het told her not to be a fool, hardly anyone round here remembered it, they weren’t born then. And nearly everyone who would remember was dead. No, it’s the murder which bothers Mumsie. After all, it was her dad who disappeared leaving behind the mouldering corpse.’

‘Wasn’t he ever found?’ piped up the woman who’d given Libby her seat. A chorus of groans answered her, and Peter turned patiently towards her.

‘Paula, do you know the story of the play, dear?’

‘Well, yes –’ Paula giggled. ‘Sort of. I mean, I’m only in bits of it, aren’t I? There’s no point in reading all of it.’

Taking in Libby’s stunned expression, Peter hurried on.

‘Well, here you are then, dear. Potted version coming up. Best that you know it all, in case you’re called on to take the lead.’

Paula gaped.

‘Hetty and her mum were hop pickers who came down to Kent from London every year, right?’

‘Yes, I know all that bit. And Hetty’s friend, Flo. Me,’ beamed Paula.

‘That’s right. And Hetty fell in love with Gregory, who was the son of the squire. He got her into trouble, the tallyman from the hop gardens told her drunken old sot of a father when he came down for the weekend with her brother Lenny, and then lo and behold, nasty old tallyman is found dead, daddy disappears, Greg marries Hetty and all is tickety-boo.’

‘But he doesn’t marry Hetty in the play.’

A collective sigh went up.

‘No, dear, because he did that a bit later, after the baby was born, so we’ve just ended it on a note of hope and explanatory notes in the programme.’

‘Oh. I see,’ said Paula, clearly not seeing. ‘So why –’

‘Enough,’ cried Peter, clapping a hand to his head and spilling a good deal of his drink. ‘I’ll bring out a book.’ He looked round the bar. ‘Anybody seen Harry?’

‘He went to see your cousin,’ somebody said, ‘before the rehearsal.’

‘And he’s not back?’

Peter’s frown boded ill for the absent Harry, not to mention his cousin, thought Libby, her brain conjuring up an unlikely picture of Harry entwined with grey-haired, genial Ben, whose adventures with the fair sex were legendary, if Peter’s stories were anything to go by.

‘He said he’d be in later,’ the barman leaned over and called through, ‘when he came in earlier.’

‘Came in earlier?’ Peter’s frown turned into a scowl.

‘Oh, come on, Pete. Give the boy a bit of freedom. He slaves away in his caff every night.’ Libby tipped up her glass and was surprised to find it empty. ‘Come on. I’ll buy you another sweet sherry.’

‘Get one in for me, ducks,’ said a voice in her ear as she stood at the bar waiting to be served. ‘And one for me friend.’

‘Harry.’ Libby turned round as far as she could. ‘You’re for it. Going off to play fast and loose with other men. Hallo, Ben.’

Harry pulled a long-suffering face and began to move towards the small bar. ‘Make mine a double, then,’ he muttered.

‘And how are you, Libby?’ Ben Wilde moved into the space vacated by Harry. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘No.’ Libby’s smile was forced. Cousin Ben always made her feel slightly uncomfortable. To her relief, the barman materialised before them.

‘Oh – er – half of lager, please, half of bitter –’ she looked doubtfully across to where Harry and Peter were deep in conversation. ‘Do you really think he wants a double something?’

‘Give him a Pils. And a pint for me, Jim,’ said Ben, laying a note on the bar.

‘Oh – I was getting these –’ Libby, flustered, was wrong-footed.

‘I insist.’

‘Oh, all right,’ she said ungraciously, and immediately felt ashamed.

They carried their drinks through to the other bar and Libby handed Peter’s over. He took it without a word and turned away to speak to someone else.

‘Oh, dear, Harry.’ Ben grinned at the eloquent back. ‘Shall I speak to him for you?’

‘Oh, let him stew.’ Harry leaned elegantly against the bar. ‘Even married couples have some time off.’

‘Some more than others,’ said Ben.

‘Well, we all know about you, you old reprobate. South-east England wasn’t safe after your divorce.’ Harry chucked Ben playfully under the chin.

‘Don’t give the lady a bad impression, Harry boy. She disapproves of me already.’

‘Old Libby?’ Harry gave an incredulous squawk. ‘She doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Do you, ducks?’

Libby cast around for something to change the subject. ‘Have you seen Uncle Lenny yet?’

‘Of course. He’s in the second-best spare bedroom, next to me,’ said Ben.

‘What’s he like?’ asked Harry.

‘Gruesome.’

‘Gruesome? Ugly?’

‘Just gruesome. He cackles.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Libby watched her vision of a well-built upstanding man dwindle away.

‘We’re none of us as we used to be, Libby.’ Ben was watching her face and it annoyed her that he had apparently read it so accurately.

‘So have you talked to him?’ asked Harry.

‘You can’t avoid it. He keeps waylaying you and saying he could tell a thing or two if given the chance.’

‘Oh, heavens.’ Harry put a hand to his mouth, delighted. ‘I must meet him. Hey, Pete. Uncle Lenny’s being an embarrassment.’

Peter rejoined the group, laying a possessive arm across Harry’s muscular shoulders.

‘So butch,’ he murmured, a tacit sign that all was forgiven.

‘We have got to go and pay a call on Uncle Lenny.’ Harry leaned against Peter’s arm. ‘Tomorrow. It’ll be a hoot.’

‘I’ve got to go to town tomorrow, you know that.’

‘When you get back then.’

‘The caff’ll be open.’

‘No bookings. Donna’ll cope.’

‘Oh, all right then. Do you want to come and meet Uncle Lenny, Lib?’

‘I’ve called a rehearsal,’ said Libby regretfully. ‘I can’t back out now.’

‘I know,’ Harry turned to Peter, his eyes alight, ‘let’s bring him to rehearsal.’ He turned to Ben. ‘Can he walk? He hasn’t got a Zimmer or anything?’

‘No, he can walk. He’s a bit slow, but he can walk fine. He’s only seventy-seven, for goodness sake. Not in his dotage.’

Harry, all of twenty-seven, looked doubtful, but said nothing.

‘That’s settled, then. How’s the play coming, Libby?’ Ben shifted comfortably, changing the subject.

‘OK,’ said Libby, without looking at him.

‘It’s bloody terrible, Ben,’ said Peter. ‘I’m beginning to think it’s my script.’

‘Oh, surely not.’ Ben raised one eyebrow and looked sideways at Libby.

‘Of course it’s not his play. It’s the bleedin’ actors. Not a brain between ’em.’ Harry patted Peter’s cheek. ‘Libby’s good, Pete’s play’s good, the theatre’s bloody marvellous – we can lick this bunch into shape.’ Harry was trying to be bracing, but Libby sensed a degree of unease beneath the bravura.

‘Anything I can do?’ Ben looked at Libby.

‘I don’t think so – is there, Pete?’

‘Get him to organise that lot back-stage. Few ideas.’

‘Stephen might not like that.’ Ben shook his head. ‘You called him in, didn’t you, Libby? Where is he, anyway?’ He peered round the bar.

‘Over there with Paula and Emma,’ said Libby, ‘I don’t suppose he can hear us, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘If you did it gently? You know, the “… How would it be if,” sort of thing, and then let him think it was his idea,’ suggested Peter.

‘If you think –’ he looked at Libby again. What does he want me to say? she thought. Or do? She settled for nodding.

‘I’ll come down tomorrow. Tell you what –’ he turned to Harry. ‘I’ll bring Uncle Lenny down.’

‘Oh, fabe!’ Harry crowed and subsided into giggles as everyone in the bar looked round.

‘What is?’ asked a new voice.

‘James!’ Paula appeared magically between Harry and Peter. ‘Where’ve you been?’

Peter looked amused. ‘Yes, baby brother. How dare you go off on your own concerns?’

James, younger, darker and altogether bigger than his brother, grinned. ‘Can’t call my life my own, can I?’

‘Drink, James?’ asked Harry.

‘I’ll get them. Anyone else?’ James looked round at Libby and Ben, who both declined.

‘There’s something going on there,’ said Peter, as Paula pushed in beside James at the bar.

‘No!’ Harry struck an attitude. ‘How did you guess?’

‘I thought they’d split up?’ Libby watched as Paula laughed up winningly into James’s face.

‘James told me he was going to end it.’ Peter turned away, frowning.

‘Dump her? Doesn’t look as though he has, does it?’ said Harry.

‘Perhaps she didn’t want to be dumped,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps she talked him into staying. I just wouldn’t want to see him caught up with her, though. She’s too old for a start.’ Libby finished her drink.

Ben looked surprised. ‘Too old?’

‘She’s nearly forty.’

‘Come off it, Lib.’ Peter laughed. ‘She’s thirty-five and looks twenty-five. James is only four years younger. Hardly toy boy territory, is it?’

‘She’s after him. Her clock’s ticking,’ said Libby stubbornly, ‘I just hope he realises it. She’s such a little cow.’

‘And such a crap actress,’ added Peter gloomily.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Harry, watching Paula coax a smile from James. ‘She’s acting the sweet little innocent well enough now.’

The bell rang for last orders and Ben offered Libby a lift home.

‘I’ve only had one pint, you’re quite safe.’

‘No, it’s not that.’ Libby dithered, pulling her cape round her, adding to the protective bulk. ‘I like walking. It’s not far.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ I sound like a prim schoolgirl, she thought, annoyed with herself.

‘OK, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

‘With Uncle Lenny.’ Libby offered a tentative smile.

‘Indeed, with Uncle Lenny. Well after rehearsals have started, yes?’

‘Might be better.’ She nodded. Then hesitated. ‘Ben –’

‘Yes?’ He turned back from the door of the car.

‘Why is Millie bothered about Uncle Lenny?’

Ben shrugged. ‘She’s grown up classy, hasn’t she? Uncle Lenny might let the side down.’

‘You think that’s it?’ Libby was relieved.

‘Positive. Sure you don’t –’ he gestured towards the car and she shook her head.

‘Right. See you tomorrow.’

Stupid bloody woman, Libby berated herself as she marched down the High Street towards Allhallow’s Lane. What’s the matter with you? You’re behaving like a teenager. She almost stopped dead as the shock lurched under her rib cage. No. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t fancy him, could she?

The cold began to seep through her cape and she started off again at a slower pace. Good God, she must have softening of the brain. Fancy a reprobate like Ben Wilde? Scourge of the under-thirty population of Canterbury and all points east? An explosive chuckle escaped her. And that was the whole point. Ben Wilde hadn’t been known to go out with anything over thirty since his divorce. He would hardly be interested in an overweight, vertically challenged middle-aged female, who, as Peter so succinctly put it, was dressed by Oxfam and coiffured by Garden Centre. Sleek, lean and leggy was the Wilde choice. Fat, faded and fifty didn’t come into it.

Stephen, however, was another matter. Obviously, her age and style appealed to him, or maybe he just couldn’t get any. . .